


Generator

by tikistitch



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-23
Updated: 2013-07-23
Packaged: 2017-12-12 16:43:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/813750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tikistitch/pseuds/tikistitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few stories set post S8, where Cas works with Sam and Dean as a hunter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Generator

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea where this came from. I'm writing two different long fics, but this story wouldn't go away. And I can't even blame a prompt for it. So here it is. Maybe at some point I'll incorporated it into a real story.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas needs to ask for help.

**Title:** Generator  
 **Fandom:** Supernatural  
 **Author:** tikific  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Characters/Pairings:** Dean/Cas, Sam  
 **Warnings:** Cursing. Spoilers up through S8. No beta.  
 **Word Count:** 2,300  
 **Summary:** Cas needs to ask for help.  
 **Notes:** I have no idea where this came from. I'm writing two different long fics, but this story wouldn't go away. And I can't even blame a prompt for it. So here it is.

 

Sam raised his head from his book and unconsciously straightened up when he heard the front door slam shut. Dean strode in, hefting an infinite number of crinkly eco-hostile white plastic grocery bags, laden with treasures from the A&P.

“How are you? You feelin’ all right?”

“I’m great,” said Sam, pulling the blanket tighter around his shoulders and stifling a cough. It was a little dance they did. Dean would worry that Sam wasn’t okay, which he wasn’t, and Sam would lie his ass off. And Dean would know he was a lying little shit. But that was how the world worked right now. 

Dean sat down next to him, his eyes sincere. “Don’t worry man. We’ll figure it out. Like we always do.” And that was enough for another day. Dean tugged at a bag and extracted a cylindrical object. The plastic wrapper sweated with condensation. “Look. They had a sale on ground beef. This is the stuff.”

Sam cocked an eyebrow. “Greasy hormone-treated animal meat will get me healthy?”

‘Yeah, this is the stuff.” Dean grinned and tossed the package back in the bag, then rose to begin securing their provisions at various points in the kitchen. Sam heard the pantry door wrenched open, and then assorted knocks and rustles. “So.” The voice carried a studied casualness Sam immediately recognized. “Where is he?”

“He’s still….” Sam completed the sentence by inclining his head. Dean couldn’t see him, of course, not from deep within the kitchen, but the message was conveyed. It was another dance, a little two-step.

“He’s still out there?” Sam nodded, and this time Dean could see him, as Dean was back out in the dining room. “He didn’t ask for help?”

“He wouldn’t ask _me_ for help, Dean.”

“He should ask for help! He needs to learn to ask for help.”

“He didn’t ask for help.”

“Well, I’m not fucking going out there! Not unless he asks. He needs to learn to ask.”

“I’m sure he’s all right, Dean.”

Dean stomped back to the kitchen. “Well, I’m not going out. Fucking stubborn ass angel. He’s on his own.”

 

Fifteen minutes later, having arrayed his recent purchases variously among the pantry, fridge and freezer, and having heated a nice warm bowl of tomato rice soup for his younger brother, which Sam solemnly promised to consume in its entirety, Dean was on his way out there.

One fortunate consequence of the recent “meteor shower” was that the Winchesters had finally determined at least one of the mysterious power sources supplying the Men of Letters bunker. Sam had been the one to realize that they had suddenly switched over to a back-up generator some time that night, and then Cas, once he had taken up residence, had made it his mission to determine the origin of the main power system. He had discovered that there was an actual miniature hydroelectric power plant located in back of the location, along a small but rapidly flowing stream that ran through the property. 

The mechanism had evidently received some damage from a falling body. They never had figured out the identity of the party in question, as he or she had departed long since, but the impact had visibly damaged some of the … well, the doohickeys, Dean though. Anyway, something that was supposed to turn around no longer did, since apparently a big thick angel skull had turned some of the useful bits into scrap metal.

Castiel spent the next few days combing the archives for a user’s manual, and then, having located the equivalent of a Chilton repair guide for the mini-dam, spent the next week evidently teaching himself civil engineering. Dean had offered encouragement, as he suspected Cas keeping busy was generally a positive thing at this juncture. The good news was that the repairs to the turbine (that's what Cas said it was, so Dean took his word for it) could be effected using fairly standard tools and parts commonly available at a hardware store. The Men of Letters evidently had a thing for kit bashing. Cas had compiled a list, and he and Dean went on a shopping foray (leaving a very flustered clerk at Home Depot).

But then the bad news: before the new parts could be installed, the old, crushed and twisted parts needed to be removed. Further, in order to achieve this, the mechanic in question needed to stand hip-deep in a moving stream lined with slick mud and smooth stones. In other words, the situation afforded absolutely no leverage, and Cas had been drained of his superior angel strength, so he was left to counter with nothing but a fragile human body and a crow bar.

Dean heard Cas working before he sighted him, grunting with effort. He crested the low hill above the stream just in time to witness Cas, for what must have been the dozenth time today, lose purchase on the ground and, with a great splash, take a rather comical pratfall into the water. 

He surfaced, sputtering and spitting water and muttering curses (had Castiel ever cursed before?) and to top it all off took a great swing at the turbine contraption with his wet crow bar, leading to a big, satisfying clang and not really much else.

“You doing all right?”

Cas turned so fast he nearly lost his footing once again, but managed to rescue himself by clutching the bent metal at the last minute. “Dean.”

Dean reached the edge of the bank, doing his level best not to smile or appear amused in any fashion at Cas's expense. “I said, you doin’ all right there?”

“I didn’t hear you arrive, Dean.”

“Yeah. I got that. I’m through with errands for the morning. You need some help?”

“I’m fine.” 

Dean frowned. “You sure?”

“I’m fine, Dean.”

The way Cas was scowling at the MoL contraption Dean was grateful he didn’t still have his smiting power, as he suspected there would be nothing left but a crater in the ground. He shrugged. “Well, if you need help, ask.”

Cas grumbled something – it may have been obscene, which delighted Dean to no end – and then once again wedged the crow bar near some tangled steel and began to pry, which seemed to generate more sweat than movement. At length there was a creak and the bar moved slightly and Cas increased his effort. But then his hand slipped and a foot slipped and he was flailing backwards….

Right into Dean’s arms. 

“It’s okay. I got you. I got you. I won’t let you fall.”

Cas craned his neck and blinked back at Dean, standing behind him in the muddy stream. Dean set his ex-angel upright. “Let’s go again. I’ll hold you steady this time.” Cas continued to stare. “Come on. Give it a try.”

Castiel once again clutched the crow bar and wedged it in place. He took a deep breath and, with Dean’s arms firmly encircling his waist, gave it all he was worth, every muscle tensed. There was a creak, and a terrible grinding noise, and then, miraculously, the part snapped free, Cas skidding slightly in the slime.

Cas picked it up, disbelief washing over his features.

“Okay, one down!” said Dean, pounding him on the back. “Let’s get the rest of those suckers.”

Cas tossed the twisted part over to the bank and nodded in assent.

Of course, they fell. Several times, in fact. Cas still wasn’t quite used to the whole deal of having a human body, and the bottom of the river was slicker than snot, and Cas was already sore and frustrated. But after a while, with Dean taking his turn on the crow bar, it was done, and all the twisted parts were laid out one after the other on the side of the bank.

They probably should have paused for breath, but it was one of those things, when you’re in the middle of something and get in the groove, and besides, Cas suddenly got pretty excited, so they grabbed up the replacement parts and started to install them. It really didn’t take long with the two of them, Cas running to check the Men of Letters manual up on the bank every two minutes to make sure everything was absolutely and precisely correct.

“So, we ready?” asked Dean after the fourth or fifth round of checks. 

“I think so Dean,” said Cas, who had scrambled to the top of the concrete structure for the last check. “You had better get clear. I am going to open the sluice.”

Dean waded to the bank and stumbled out of the water. He gave thumbs up, and Cas started fiddling with a lever.

“Now, don't be disappointed if it doesn't work right off!” Dean warned. Then there was a click, and a rush of water. As Cas and Dean watched, the turbine began to rotate, slowly at first, then picking up speed. It began to hum, and Cas eased his way off the top of the dam to check a panel of mysterious dials arrayed up on the bank. 

“Master of Puppets” sounded, and Dean squatted down to where he'd left his wallet and keys and a few other items from his pockets inside his jacket on the bank. His shoes made a squishing sound as he moved to grab his cell phone. “Yeah? It did? No shit! That's awesome, Sammy! Yeah, got it fixed. We rock. Okay. Yeah. See you in a minute.” He turned to Cas. “Hey, Cas, Sam says-”

“The main power is on?” asked Cas, looking up from the dials. 

“Yeah!” Dean sat down on the bank and began to unlace his boots. He turned one over, shaking it as it emitted a veritable stream of water and mud and small stones. “God dammit, got the entire fucking river in my shoes.” He removed his sopping wet socks and threw them up on a fence post. Castiel regarded him for a few moments, and then repeated the gesture with his own shoes, although he lacked socks. 

“Dude, what did I say about wearing socks?”

Castiel sighed and watched the river drain from his running shoes. “You said I would get fewer blisters.”

Dean shook his head and peered up into the afternoon sun. He grabbed his sunglasses out of the small pile and donned them. It had turned into a lovely summer afternoon, and the heat felt wonderful after standing the morning in the chill of the stream. He looked up and down the bank. “Hey, Cas, when you're out here, you seen anyone else?”

“I've seen no one else, Dean. No one but you.”

“Well, then, fuck it.” And so saying, Dean peeled off his damp shirt and jeans and hung them, too, over a fence post to dry. And then, clad only in his boxer shorts, he lay back in the soft grass, arms behind his head, shit-eating grin on his face. “Screw everything, I'm gonna get a tan.”

He could feel Cas staring at him, standing there, awkwardly holding his shoes. After a time, there was a soft rustling, and then Dean felt Cas lying nearby. He stole a glance beside him. Cas's pale chest shown white in the sunlight. “You know, you can take off your pants too. Nothing I haven't seen before.”

Cas seemed to stiffen. “I'm not presently wearing underwear, Dean.”

Dean rolled over, propping himself on one elbow. “Dude, you gotta get with it, human clothes.”

There was that smiting look again. “Human clothing is … _redundant!_ ”

Dean rolled back onto his back, shaking with laughter. He wiped a tear. “Oh goddammit. I'm gonna tear something!” He held his stomach. 

“The human situation: it's only temporary,” Cas grumbled.

Dean rolled back to his side. Cas had an arm up over his face now, shading his eyes, blocking it all out. The soggy jeans hung low at his waist. Dean could see the fine dark hairs low on Cas's belly. He grew thoughtful. He wasn't sure why, but he badly wanted to trace a hand over that pale stomach. “The human 'situation' is always temporary,” he said.

“I suppose you are correct.”

“Cas. Why don't you just ask for help? I mean, what the fuck?”

Cas didn't answer for a long time. Dean started to wonder if he'd fallen asleep in the sun. “I shouldn't want you to be around.”

“What?”

Cas sighed. His whole body sighed. Dean pushed himself a fraction of an inch nearer, ostensibly to hear. 

“I shouldn't want to have you … around. I shouldn't want to be here. I shouldn't _want_. I'm an angel, Dean. I was made wrong.”

“What's wrong with needing help?”

“You don't understand! I don't want you to help! I just want … you.”

The breeze kicked up a little, rustling leaves.

Cas gasped at the press of Dean's weight on his thighs. He lowered his arm and blinked up. Dean leaned down, pressing his hands to the sides of Cas's face.

“It's all right, Cas. I got you.”

 

Sam woke from a light doze as the front door clattered open. 

“Wake up, Sammy! Time to sleep.”

Sam squinted at his watch. “It's only six. Fucker.”

“Yeah.” Both Dean and Cas were barefoot, carrying their shoes along like a couple of mad children.

Cas's Metallica T shirt was on backwards.

“You fixed the turbine!”

“We fixed the turbine, Sam,” Cas agreed, funny little smile on his face. Sam had to smile back.

“So, Cas.” Dean slapped Cas on the back. “What say we hit the showers, and we get burgers?”

“I'm up for it,” said Sam. And he was. 

Cas nodded, the motion of his head causing a little sprig of grass to work it's way halfway out of his matted hair. Smiling, Dean reached over and flicked it away, his hand lingering on Cas's face just an instant too long. He nodded to Sam, and he and Cas made their way out of the room.

Sam let his smile slip into a grin. “About fucking time,” he muttered. And then he went back to his reading.


	2. Save Rite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas considers his role in the family business.

**Title:** Save Rite  
 **Fandom:** Supernatural  
 **Author:** tikific  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Characters/Pairings:** Dean/Cas, Sam  
 **Warnings:** Cursing. Spoilers through S8.  
 **Word Count:** 3,500  
 **Summary:** Cas considers his role in the family business.  
 **Notes:** This story occurs in the same universe as Generator, although there’s no need to read that one first.

 

The homeless man shivered, pulled his stained and tattered raincoat closer and nodded, keeping his eyes fixed downward as the coins splattered into the frayed baseball cap set on the ground before him. The redhead smiled and nodded at him as she passed, though he obviously didn't want to risk eye contact by looking upwards.

“Why do you do that?” snapped her male companion, who was blond and red-cheeked. 

“Do what?”

“You only encourage them, you know. They’re like roaches or something.”

“Geez. He can hear you, Milton!” she hissed. She grabbed his arm and hurried him through the hissing double doors that demarcated the entrance to the Save Rite drug store on Main Street.

“I don’t care if he can hear! He’s a scumbag,” sneered Milton, making sure to shout the last in the direction of the raggedy homeless guy, who did not reply, but only slumped down a little more. “He needs to get a fucking job. They all do. Scumbag losers.”

As it was early in the morning, the drug store was nearly empty. A bored clerk sitting at the front register gave the bickering couple half a glance, and then went back to leafing through a _National Tattler_ magazine. There was a lone customer standing at the magazine rack, thumbing through some porn mags.

“Poor guy looks like he hasn’t eaten in a week, Milton,” the redhead chided. They passed an end cap stocked with toys, and she idly tapped on a rainbow-hued plastic ball with a long red fingernail as she passed by, heading towards the back of the store.

“You know how you get money for food, Sadie? You work a job.”

“Maybe he can’t work, Milton. Have you thought of that?” They were now walking through the cold remedies. There was a guy standing there, sniffling and peering through rheumy eyes at a couple of the boxes. There were several empty stretches of shelving, where instead of product, shelf talker cards instructed the customer to inquire with the pharmacist. The cards cited state regulations regarding the products in question.

Milton testily tore a tag of paper down from below a region of empty shelf as he walked by. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I’d hate to interrupt his career of being a shiftless little motherfucker with my unreasonable demands.”

“Well, now you’re just being a dick,” muttered Sadie. They had traversed the store and now stood at the back, by the pharmacy cash register, where Milton impatiently pounded on the bell placed on the desk.

“Milton, you only have to ring it once.” Sadie was rolling her eyes and holding up a package of Golden Years vitamin pills, which the box claimed were especially designed for those over age 65. She sighed and placed the box back in the elaborate tree-shaped store display that was standing by the pharmacy area.

The pharmacist emerged from the back, wearing her tightest “customer is always right” face. “Yes sir,” she inquired. Sadie yanked the bell away from Milton to force him to stop ringing it, and he glared at her, proffering the yellow slip of paper he'd just snatched from the cold remedies shelving to the young pharmacist.

“Yes sir,” repeated the pharmacist, staring at the paper. According to her name tag her name was Mina, and she was here to help you. 

“You already said that,” Milton told her.

“Yes sir. How many bottles would you like, sir?” Mina asked.

“All of them.”

Mina's eyes went wide, and she looked between Milton and Sadie, perhaps thinking she had misunderstood. “I'm sorry?”

“What are you sorry for?” Milton waved a hand dismissively. “Go to the back of your little glass house, get all the bottles of Cold Eez and give them to us. Idiot.”

“I'm not allowed to do that, sir.” Mina straightened up to her full height of 5'2”, buoyed now by the rules and regulations of the great state of Michigan. “The medication in question contains pseudoephedrine, which may be used to manufacture illegal drugs.”

“Of course we're gonna manufacture illegal drugs. Why else would we be bothering with this crap? Do I look like I have a cough?”

“Milton!” Sadie warned.

“But she's an idiot, Sadie.”

“Milton, let me,” urged Sadie.

Milton grumbled but stepped aside, and the pharmacist breathed a sigh of relief as Sadie now stood before her. “About the Cold Eez, honey,” Sadie cooed. And then she leaned forward.

And then she snapped out two rows of razor sharp fangs.

Mina froze, a deer in headlights, unable to even force out a scream.

“Bite me, True Blood!” yelled the man who had just moments ago been pawing through the porn. He leapt at Sadie and, yanking her back by her red hair, beheaded her with a single swing of his razor-sharp stone axe.

Milton turned to run for the exit, but found himself blocked by the sniffling guy from the cold medicine aisle. He roared, snapped out his own set of nasty fangs, and clobbered the cold medicine guy with the store display for Golden Years vitamins as he ran past, sending him slamming into aisle, and causing boxes of cold remedies to rain down on the floor. The congested guy in turn tripped up the crazy axe guy, who had started in pursuit.

Milton barreled down the aisle to the front of the store and bolted through the automatic doors, breathing deeply of the scent of freedom. But then the suddenly amazingly spry homeless guy leapt up and caught him around the waist in a flying tackle. Milton smacked face down on the sidewalk.

The furious vampire wriggled around to sit up and screamed, “Get a fucking job!” at the homeless dude, who replied by shoving his money-laden ball cap into Milton's frothing, fanged mouth.

Milton sputtered, spitting out the cap, spilling change and scattering paper bills all over the sidewalk, and opened up to take a healthy bite of the homeless guy's neck. But he found himself wrenched back by the hair, and then the crazy axe guy had his head off.

“Fucking vampires. Meth labs! I mean, come on!” Dean scowled at the lifeless vampire head he still grasped by the hair.

“Good save, Cas,” said Sam, stifling a cough, and leaning over to give his friend a hand up off the sidewalk, where he was still in the grip of the now headless vampire.

“Thank you, Sam.” Cas glanced around him. “Um, do I get to keep it?”

“Keep what?” asked Dean, letting Milton's head drop to the sidewalk, where it bounced and rolled away.

“Keep this?” Cas pointed to the crumpled bills and piles of change that had scattered over the sidewalk nearby when the vampire had spat out his cap.

“Wow, Cas, you really made out like a bandit,” said Sam, who whistled low. 

Dean looked skeptical. “Wait, you got all this money just in the time you were sitting out here?”

“Yes, Dean.” Cas and Sam had both hunkered down to collect the fallen cash.

“There must be at least twenty bucks here,” said Sam, scooping quarters into his pockets.

“Wait. How did you get all this money?” Dean repeated.

“Cas must be really good at being homeless.”

Cas looked thoughtful, turning over a fifty cent piece. “I have certain issues with this money. It was gathered under false pretenses. Perhaps we could leave it as a tip for our wait person? Would that be ethical?”

“That's not a bad idea, Cas.”

“Or we could use it at slot machines,” huffed Dean.

“Gambling is illegal in this state,” Cas reminded Dean.

All three looked up as sirens began to wail in the distance. “Come on, money grubbers,” said Dean. “Let's get out of here.” Cas and Sam quickly snatched up the rest of Cas’s earnings and followed Dean along the Main Street sidewalk and off through a series of side streets, towards the spot where the Impala had been parked. “You guys hungry? We should go check out that place we saw up the road with the state’s best chili cheese fries!”

Sam sniffled. “But Dean, it’s not even ten am.”

“C’mon, Sammy.”

“I want breakfast, Dean. Not a heart attack on a plate.”

They had reached the car, Dean waiting impatiently at the driver’s side door. “C’mon Sammy! Chili cheese fries! With onions! How often do we get to this town?”

“As often as there’s meth lab vampires,” said Sam dryly. His face edged a smile, and he brought up his fists.

Dean scowled. “Oh, that! I’ll get you this time.” The brothers stared and, as Cas watched, entranced, counted off one-two-three, bouncing their right fists up and down in time.

Dean said, “Aaaaargh!” or something very similar.

“Always with the rock, Dean,” grinned Sam, opening the passenger side door. “Let’s go get breakfast.” 

 

“Damn, being homeless is a good racket,” said Dean. The three hunters sat in red-upholstered booth in a diner many miles away from the Save Rite. While Sam, in the seat opposite Dean, sniffled and studied the menu for heart-healthy options, Cas was sorting his coins and paper money into an array of neat piles. “Is that a $50?” asked Dean.

Castiel snatched the bill back and sorted it into the correct pile. “People are insensitive. That vampire was very rude.”

“It's just, I don't remember making this kinda cash when I played Homeless Guy. Must have been a lucrative corner.”

Sam glanced up from his menu, temporarily unable to decide between an egg white omelet and a blueberry yogurt parfait. “Or have you considered Cas is just better at playing homeless than you were?”

“Must be the raincoat,” said Dean, pulling up a sleeve of the frayed coat Castiel had neatly folded up and placed between them on the seat.

Castiel scowled and smoothed down the coat. “Perhaps next time someone else could play the homeless party.”

“What are you talking about, Cas? You spent one morning on your ass on the sidewalk and you have enough for a tropical vacation and all the mai tais you can drink.”

“I find the role to be … humiliating. I think I could convincingly assess cold medicine. Or browse pornography.”

Sam snickered. “Cas,” Dean protested. “All right, first off, it's not necessarily porn.”

“Yes it is,” said Sam.

“Sam! Go back to figuring out the vitamin count of the pancakes. And second, Castiel, you gonna play Magazine Browser Guy, you gotta fight vampires.”

“I fought the vampire this morning.”

Sam was looking over his menu at them. “Dean. He saved us after I fucked up.”

“Sam, you did not fuck up. And Cas, you're not ready to be Magazine Browser Guy!”

“So have you decided?” All three men looked up in mild surprise at the sudden appearance of the waitress. 

“I have,” said Dean, handing her the menu. “I’m having the pigs in a blanket. And coffee.”

“Strawberry yogurt parfait for me,” said Sam. “And coffee.”

“And what about you, sweetie?” she asked Cas. 

“I will have coffee, please,” said Cas.

“Nothing to eat, doll?” The waitress looked disappointed.

“No, thank you.”

“Yeah, he's getting something to eat,” Dean told the waitress. “What are you getting to eat, Cas?”

“But I just want coffee, Dean.”

“Look, you decide or I decide for you.”

“I prefer to pass.”

“No. You're not skipping breakfast. All right, make that two orders of pigs in a blanket,” he told the waitress. She gave Dean an arch of her heavily plucked eyebrow, but scribbled down the order and whisked off.

“I don’t know that I can countenance eating pigs in a blanket, Dean. How are we to know if the swine in question were treated in a humane manner?”

“Because they have a warm and fuzzy pancake ranch right out back.” 

Cas looked dubious.

“Look, you weren’t gonna eat anything! And I’ll tell you, the piggies are now gonna be in your stomach, and that will make them happy.” He playfully poked Cas in the midsection. “Right?”

Cas's skeptical look had narrowed to a spaghetti western-worthy scowl. He pushed the pile of coinage to the side. “I am going to go wash my hands. Money is dirty.” And so, sparing Dean a last icy look, he retreated to the men's room.

Dean stared after him, and then turned his attention to the cash. “Look at this pile.” He leaned over to whisper to his brother. “And why does the waitress chick call him _honey_ and _sweetie?_ What's up with that?” 

“You do realize our waitress probably has grandkids your age?” Sam muttered back.

“I can be sweet.”

Sam opened his laptop and hit the power button. A mellow tone sounded. “Dean, you think maybe you need to ease up a little on Cas?”

“Ease up how? He wants to be a hunter, he needs to eat his vegetables.”

“You never _order_ vegetables,” Sam sighed into the laptop. 

“Do you get wifi here? Seriously?”

Sam spread out broad hands. “Would it kill you to let him be something other than Homeless Guy? Or even decide what he wants for breakfast?” He suddenly jerked forward, snatched up a paper napkin and emitted a sneeze that sent a couple of Cas’s dollar bills fluttering. He drew back, slightly cross-eyed.

Dean snatched at the errant money. “Cas is great at Homeless Guy. Look at all his ill-gotten gains!” Dean waved the dollars.

“You should wash your hands too, Dean,” said Cas, who was now back at the booth. “You don’t know where those dollars have been.”

Dean waved the paper money at Sam. “Now who’s being Mom? Huh?” He tossed the money back on the table and, lifting the trench coat lying on the seat beside him, scooted out of the booth. He plopped the coat into Cas’s arms and strode off.

Cas slid into the booth, still clutching his coat to his chest.

“You doin’ okay, Cas?” Sam was still dabbing at his slightly red nose with a paper napkin.

Cas bit his lip, and then carefully placed the coat once again on the seat. “Your brother. He is difficult to reason with.”

“Can’t reason with Dean.”

Cas cocked his head. “I don’t understand, Sam”

“My brother isn’t reasonable. So he doesn’t listen to reason.”

Cas frowned, and watched the waitress appeared again to pour coffee into his cup. “Thank you,” he whispered.

 

Cas placed the folded trench coat carefully up on top of the dresser in one of the motel suite’s bedrooms. There was a card standing on the dresser advertising the Soo Locks Engineer’s Day.

“Hey,” said Dean, coming into the bedroom. Cas did not reply. 

“Hey, Scruffy,” Dean repeated. And then Cas felt arms around his waist, the press of a body on his back, and Dean’s chin resting on his shoulder. 

Cas closed his eyes for a long moment, leaning his head somewhat to let Dean nuzzle his neck, savoring the contact. “You instructed me not to shave, Dean,” he grumbled. “To insure the authenticity of my portrayal.”

“Verisimilitude!” said Dean, and Cas could feel the grin. “You could get an Oscar for homelessness.” Cas tensed, and Dean pulled back. “Hey.” He gently turned Cas around to face him. Cas glared, although it was not his most convincing glare. Dean snaked some fingers into Cas’s belt loops, and then backed away, pulling Cas towards the bed. He sat down with a thump and tugged Cas over to stand between his legs. “Hey. You understand why, right?”

Cas was trying to maintain his anger, but not doing a terribly good job of it.

“I need to know you’re good, right? I worry about Sammy, and I worry about you. And that’s a lot of worry. I mean, and then we have vampires too.”

Cas relaxed a bare fraction. He nodded.

“Hey you guys! Sorry!” Sam poked his head into the room and then his whole body followed, filling the doorway. “They just hit another drug store.”

“Wait. We didn’t get them all?” said Dean, as Cas took a step back. “How many fucking meth lab vampires are there, anyway?”

Sam shook his head. “Maybe it’s a whole nest of them?”

“Fucking scumbags. I mean, why don’t they go bite people like real vampires?”

Sam snickered and Dean heaved a sigh. “So, I guess you grab your coat, Cas.”

“No.”

“Are we having this argument again?” Dean rose and stood up tall, looking down at Cas.

Cas straightened as well, his hands balled into fists. “I would like to challenge you for the role of Magazine Browsing Person.”

“What?”

“I would like to challenge you … to rock-paper-scissors!”

Dean looked at Sam, who pretended to sniffle, and then shot a glare at Cas, balling his own hands into fists. “All right. Ready when you are, angel.”

 

The homeless guy lolled against the wall, shifting uncomfortably in a ragged raincoat that looked to be at least one size too small. He picked up the ball cap that was lying beside him and jiggled it, muttering to himself. “Pennies? Fuck me!”

He set the hat hastily back down on the grimy sidewalk as the couple passed by. Hoodies pulled up, both of them, and she also had a knit cap underneath. Ridiculous. And both of them skinny and pale, and wearing jackets over the hoodies. He glared at them, looking them up and down, and the girl briefly met his eyes. And then they both disappeared into the drug store, as the guy muttered something in her ear.

It had to be them, didn’t it? It was pretty damn obvious.

Dean scanned up and down the street, and then, assuring himself it was deserted, slipped inside the Save Rite. The vamps were right up front, oddly enough, staring at the antacids. That was weird. Why would vamps have indigestion? He looked around, confused. He didn’t see Cas or Sam at their posts. What the fuck? This was what happened when people didn’t stick to their roles: a clusterfuck.

“We’ve talked about this.”

Dean stared up in wonder at the very large security guard who was now just a breath away, staring down at him. Dean scowled up at him. “How could we have talked about this? I’ve never seen you before?” 

“Come on, buddy. Let’s take it outside.”

“But, I’m not…. Oh, I know what you think. But I’m not,” Dean babbled as the guy grabbed him roughly by the bicep and began walking him out. The clerk at the front was staring at him, seemingly terrified.

“Hey, I’m not what you think,” Dean told her as the guard dragged him through the door and gave him a push. Dean landed on his knees on the sidewalk. “Hey, watch it, buddy!” he protested.

“Get a job,” hissed the security guard, who now sported two rows of very pointed teeth.

“Fuck,” whispered Dean, scrambling to his feet. He felt for his knife as the vampire lunged.

“This is for your reading pleasure, Nosferatu!” Cas shouted, shoving a rolled up issued of Busty Asian Beauties into the vamp security guard’s mouth.

The vamp sputtered and gagged, and now grabbed Cas, who called, “Sam!”

Sam jumped out and tossed a loop of many strands of fishing line over the vamp’s head and then yanked it tight. The vampire’s hands were at his neck, and both Sam and Cas were on his back, holding him down as he struggled. Sam deftly twisted the fishing line around a nightstick, and then wound the stick around, successfully and silently garroting the vampire, who collapsed forward in a pool of someone else’s blood.

“Whoa,” said Dean, who for once couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“Sam and I determined at the outset of this operation that the security guard was an undead creature,” Cas explained. 

“Inside job!” added Sam.

Dean squatted down and tugged the somewhat drool-y Busty Asian Beauties magazine from the creature’s mouth. He stood. The unfortunate centerfold was now riddled with bite marks. “Well, hey.” He looked at Cas and his brother. “You’re both okay?”

“We’re fine,” Sam told him, stifling a small cough.

Dean stared at Cas, and then hooked an elbow around his neck, drawing him nearer. “You’re all right.”

Cas nodded, and Dean smiled. “Well, then, okay. Good job.”

The pale, skinny couple exited the pharmacy, paper Save Rite bag in the girl’s hand. The male of the couple glanced at Sam, Dean, Cas and the vampire corpse, and then grumbled, “Get a job,” to Dean, and departed.

“Rude bastard!” said Dean. “Hey, I’m not homeless!” he shouted after them.

Sam hunkered down and grabbed the ball cap from off the ground. He ran his fingers around inside and grinned. “Wow. Must be thirty-four, thirty-five whole cents in here. Good job!”

“Perhaps you are right, Dean, and I need to play the homeless person from now on,” Cas told him.

“Hey, I could do better!” Dean protested. Sirens were wailing in the distance, and the three began to walk away. 

“It’s my turn next,” said Sam. 

“Oh, you’ll just give them one of your puppy dog looks! How is that fair?” said Dean.

“And I will browse the pornography section,” said Cas.

“Okay, you are not browsing the girlie books.”

“Then I will challenge you to another match of rock-paper-scissors.”

“You’ll never win!” Dean told him. He sighed. “Can we at least get chili cheese fries this time?”


	3. Clowntime is Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Cas pursue a Northwest legend in an abandoned amusement park. Sam is not amused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess I'll keep writing more of this stuff when I get stuck on my longer fic.

**Title:** Clowntime is Over  
 **Fandom:** Supernatural  
 **Author:** tikific  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Characters/Pairings:** Dean/Cas, Sam  
 **Warnings:** Cursing. Spoilers up through S8.  
 **Word Count:**  
4,300 **Summary:** Dean and Cas pursue a Northwest legend in an abandoned amusement park. Sam is not amused.  
 **Notes:** I probably follow too many abandoned places blogs, but so what. This take place in the same universe as Generator and Save Rite. You can read those too. Or not.

 

“I can’t do this, Dean.”

Dean Winchester set hands to hips and surveyed his surroundings. They stood in a weed-eaten parking lot just outside the once grand entryway of a long abandoned amusement park.

Dean cast a glance at his recalcitrant baby brother. “Sammy. You can do this.”

With a grimace, Sam forced himself to look upwards. The broken face of a weathered fiberglass clown, raised up several stories high and setting astride a yellow archway, glared down upon him, mocking him.

“This is Clownland Family Fun Center, Sammy. There are gonna be clowns.”

“Dean.” It was a rare instance when the younger Winchester was at loss for words. “There are things I can do. And things I can’t do. And of the things I can’t do … this is a thing.” Clearly, Stanford had not prepared him for this eventuality.

“Man, you gotta suck it up.”

Sam stifled a cough that had been stuck in his throat now for a good ten minutes. “What I need very badly now is to go somewhere and hork up those blueberry pancakes you made me eat for breakfast.”

“Sam-“

“Dean.” The voice was quiet but insistent. Dean reluctantly turned to meet the eyes of the absolutely and utterly dead serious ex-angel. “We will handle this. You and I.”

But Dean decided to give it one more go. “Sam. Come on, dude. This is it! This is _him!_ ”

The cough edged out in a hoarse laugh. “Like I told you, this is _not_ him. Bigfoot, if he ever existed, is not retired and living in Clownland!”

“So if it ain’t Sasquatch, what the hell is it?”

“I dunno. A bear? Or a really big dog?”

Dean was moved to snort in derision. Because, _seriously_. “Bigfoot is a Labrador? That’s what’s been eating local teenagers and dumping their bones in the sea?”

“I said it could be a bear. Or maybe a gorilla?” Sam winced, regretting the words as soon as they flew free.

“A gorilla. In Washington State. Is this a _rain gorilla_?”

“Dean.”

“Hey, maybe it’s part tree octopus. Have you considered that? Octo-monkey!” Dean waved his hands in front of Sam in a rough approximation of tentacles.

“The being commonly known as Bigfoot died in the Mt. St. Helen’s eruption,” Cas interjected.

“What?” said Dean, who ceased his writhing to turn on Cas. “And how the hell do you know that?”

Cas puffed up as if he were about to break out the wings. “No living being could have survived that blast.” His look darkened. “Now, Dean. Shall we go?”

The human shard that remained of the once celestial being inclined his head, and Dean scowled. When Metatron snatched Cas’s grace he must have left behind all the cussedness. Damn was this guy stubborn sometimes. “Sam….”

“I’ll just go sit in the car and have a quiet nervous breakdown,” Sam assured them. He looked back up at the ghastly entryway and shuddered. “Though I might move it back. Out of sight. Like … fuck.”

Dean huffed to signal big brotherly impatience and dug the car keys out from among the lint in his pocket. He lobbed them at Sam and turned to go. “Come on. Let’s get this over with,” he told Cas, who nodded solemnly to Sam and then followed along, under the archway and into the bowels of Clownland.

Sam felt his stomach lurch again, and wondered idly exactly how furious Dean would be if he filled the Impala with blueberry pancake splatter.

 

“This is an amusement park.”

It was statement, not a question, but Dean answered anyway. “ _Was_ an amusement park. Until they figured it was built over a sewer line. A leaking sewer line.”

“What characteristics do you find to be amusing, Dean?”

They were standing in the shadow of the rusted remains of what had been a giant Ferris wheel. Dean stifled the small pit of panic arising in his gut and looked away. There was a huge fiberglass clown face grinning at them from the central hub, and the individual cars were all painted up so you looked like you were riding in the jaws of a clown. A Ferris wheel constructed from the remains of beheaded clowns? Dean shook his head, chasing away the thought. “I dunno. Just amusing in general I guess. You know. You’d bring the kids, go on rides.”

“You would go on that ride, Dean?” Cas pointed upwards, which was exactly the direction Dean didn’t want to look.

“Oh, fuck no. But, you know, rides. Cotton candy. _Fun_.”

“I had thought you found heights to be unpleasant?”

“I hate heights. You know that.”

“So, you wouldn’t consider a ride on this mechanism to be amusing?”

“What, the creepy clown skull Ferris wheel? No, I’d find it to be a shit-my-pants kind of situation.”

“Hrm.”

“How about this, Cas? How about we pursue our furry friend and leave the explanations of why humans are weird for later?”

“You mean to follow the cryptid’s trail?”

That caught Dean short. “What trail?”

Cas crouched down, trailing a long finger on the ground. “These tracks are too large to have been made by a human.”

“That’s a track?” Dean hunkered down beside Cas, staring intently at the patch he was indicating. “I guess it does sort of look like a footprint, now you mention it. Oh, wait!” He turned his attention to Cas. “The Men of Letters library. This is what you were studying.”

Cas’s face was tilted in a way Dean wouldn’t have been able to see the smile, but he saw his shoulders straighten a fraction. The little guy was pleased with himself. “The trail would seem to go off in this direction.” Cas pointed to indicate a path heading more or less towards the nearby seashore. “But I have a reservation about this enterprise.”

“I guess I’m the complaints department. What’s your beef?”

“According to my survey of the literature, Sasquatch was alleged to be a shy and peaceful creature.”

“Yeah, well, Metatron was supposed to be our buddy.” Dean knew even before he’d finished speaking that he’d fucked up. Cas straightened up and caught his breath. “Hey. I’m sorry. I’m a dick. Cas? Look at me, man.” But Cas was staring off in another direction, his breath suddenly gone a little ragged. 

Dean reached over and put a hand on the back of the other man’s head, gently drawing him forward until their foreheads were almost touching. “Look at me, okay? Focus. We’re gonna go get Bigfoot now, and we’re gonna kick his big ass. Right? Or we’ll gank the big dog. Or big octo-bear. Or whatever the fuck.”

“Octo-bear?”

“Octo-bear. It’s funny. It’s hilarious!” Dean hopped back and roared while flapping his arms in a cephalopodian manner. Cas did the curious puppy head-tilt thing, but at least he wasn’t sobbing with some kind of existential despair. “All right? So, let’s get tracking.”

“These tracks … are feet. Not pseudopodia.”

“Good. Follow the feet!”

 

“I’m not useless.”

Sam rested his head on the Impala’s steering wheel. He had just backed the beast far enough away in the cracked, rutted and weed-strewn old parking lot so he could no longer see the looming clown head that was fated to haunt his dreams. And then, upon finishing the maneuver, although he hadn’t vomited, he had gone into a small coughing fit, which, though not terribly debilitating, had succeeded in taking a good sized bite out of what was left of his ego.

“I am not useless,” Sam repeated, glancing over to floor beside him. One of his many overdue library books had popped out from underneath the passenger seat when the car had hit a not terribly well marked speed bump. He hoped to God he hadn’t fucked up something with the suspension, because sick or not, Dean would have his head on a platter if baby incurred any harm.

He scooped up the book, a crappy trade paperback emblazoned, _Crypto! Real Modern Day Monsters of the Pacific Northwest._ And, yes, it actually had an exclamation point in the title. He opened it up to the page on Clownland, which was faced by a really horrible photograph of a ginormous fiberglass clown. “I am not useless,” he muttered. “Exclamation point.”

 

 _Well, this figures_ , Dean thought to himself. Cas’s dubious Bigfoot trail had wandered through the park, past innumerable weathered effigies of painted-faced harlequins, and they had arrived at the coast, near the notorious effluent pipe through which raw sewage from the surrounding coastal towns was pumped into the ocean. 

The aroma was definitely distinctive. The sludge oozed from the end of the pipe and fell into a muddy, stinking ditch. The ditch canted downwards, and then the sewage abruptly spilled off the cliff out into the sea some … well, Dean didn't exactly want to think about how far below.

“Would you have found this ride amusing, Dean?”

Dean blinked up at the rusting, broken down roller coaster looming behind them. It had a loop. God help them, a genuine 360 degree loop. “That thing? No way.”

Cas was giving him the baffled angel-puppy look again. It was time to reorient things back to reality. “So, what do you think is the best way to kill this thing?” This had been the subject of a long, fractious debate which began in the Men of Letters bunker and continued throughout the drive, through their check-in at a local hotel, and indeed continued simmering even during their arrival at Clownland. How exactly do you take down a Bigfoot? Dean himself favored silver bullets for no other reason, Sam maintained, than they were cool. Sam, on the other hand, favored a pointed wooden stake, as he reasoned the thing might have some commonality with a local pagan god. 

Cas, to Dean's annoyance, agreed equally with both of them. Although when pressed, he turned out to favor beheading the creature, as, he suggested, god or beast, it wouldn't get far without its head. To which Dean was forced to agree. So Dean had packed along a revolver and one of Sammy's wooden stakes, and Cas had his favorite knife, a real nasty thing he'd been using to gank vampires. Since losing his grace Cas had become something of a knife freak, which made Dean terribly proud.

“I suppose we will have to see what works,” said Cas.

“That means don't bother with the wooden stake?” prompted Dean. 

Cas scrunched up his eyes. “I think there is actually a slightly better argument in favor of the wooden stake than the silver bullets.”

“Wait. Really?” This sounded like treason.

“But I think beheading will prove to be the correct methodology.” Cas had the knife out and was running a thumb along the edge. It was kind of hot, actually, and Dean found himself halfway regretting that Clownland's old Tunnel of Love ride currently looked like it had become the place the drunk college kids went to relieve themselves, because he was suddenly contemplating activities that involved him sticking his tongue as far as it could go down Castiel's throat.

“What was that?”

“What was what?” asked Dean, suddenly emerging from his reverie. Cas pointed the knife blade at the rusted out hulk of the awful clown-themed roller coaster.

Dean stared. It was nothing. No, what was that? A shadow? A really big shadow?

No.

He nodded silently to Cas. They approached the roller coaster and carefully entered through a gaping hole in the rust-stained chain link fence. Dean shivered. Even though the coaster had obviously been shut down for decades, one look up at the terrible hill climbs and the loop-the-loop brought back painful memories of being coerced into riding one of the cursed things. He would rather go against a nest of vampires with a butter knife than brave one of those beasts again.

Cas was signaling for him to stop. It was silly, really. In all probability, the shadow was probably just some homeless dude hoping to bed down for the night. He was going to say something, but Cas clapped a hand over his mouth and motioned for silence.

This was a little bit hot, too. Dean wondered if he needed to give the Tunnel of Love another once over.

And then he heard the rustling.

Without a word, both men spun around, weapons raised.

“Sasquatch” was one of Sammy's nicknames. Even diminished by his illness Sam was a big guy: there was no denying that.

But this thing? It was like a fur-covered brick fucking wall that had gotten up to move. And now it was towering over them, tall as a hill climb and disorienting as a loop-the-loop.

Cas did that utterly stupid guardian angel thing where he went to shove in front. Dean grasped the back of his shirt and pulled them both back a step.

Then he raised his firearm and emptied it into the chest area. Six silver bullets.

This made it angry.

Roaring and bleeding, it swiped an immense paw at Cas and Dean. Cas hit the deck in time, but Dean was a little slow and got caught by the backhand, the gun flying from his hands. He cursed. The beast started to charge him, but there was a cry, and to Dean's amazement, Cas leapt up on its back, shouting and valiantly trying to stab it in the neck. But it looked like the time Dean had tried to stab Sammy with that stupid movie prop knife: it completely failed to penetrate the thick fur.

Dean grabbed Sam’s wooden stake, as there was nothing else left to do. Cas wriggled around, trying to keep purchase, and somehow managed to put the knife into the creature's eye.

The creature wailed in pain and then took off blindly running, seeping blood, Cas still clinging to its neck. Dean raced behind, clutching the stake, as it slammed into the chain link fence and wrenched down an entire section as it passed. It fled towards the sea, and Dean spent a horrible moment terrified that it was going off the cliff along with Cas. But then it took a bad step and stumbled down into the sewage pipe ditch instead.

Dean reached the edge of the ditch where now both Cas and Sasquatch lay, covered in the disgusting brownish sludge. The beast was moving, rousing, but Cas was not. It raised itself again on its hind legs, crazed with pain, and reared back to strike.

“Cas! No!”

 

The book was actually quite good. Sam had read it cover to cover a number of times now. The author wasn't a hunter, but he had obviously put a lot of effort into checking historical records. The Bigfoot chapter skimmed over the well-known basics, and gained Sam's esteem by dismissing the laughable video footage as an obvious hoax.

Sam was re-reading the section on Clownland, which had sparked their current visit. Although it didn't technically fall under the rubric of a mysterious monster, the park had been rumored to be haunted almost since the time of it was shut down by state authorities, some decades past. There were conflicting reports that the owner himself had alerted authorities to the errant sewer line, although his motivation remained elusive: the park was not insured, so it couldn’t be argued he was going for a payoff.

As Sam read through the collected anecdotes, he began to reflect that they did not really add up to what he knew about vengeful spirits so much as something else. Something was tickling at the edge of his consciousness....

And then something else was tickling. Sam sneezed. And then he opened the glove compartment, grasping for another Kleenex. Instead, he grabbed the frayed old map of the park he gotten from somewhere. He took it out and carefully unfolded it, peering at the park's odd layout. Although it abutted the coastline, it didn't make the best use of the property: it was instead roughly circular in design, and divided into six more or less equal sections, five along the perimeter, and the great Ferris wheel smack in the middle like the hub on a wheel. Sam chuckled, remembering suckering Dean into riding one of those things when he'd been a teenager. It was probably a cruel trick, knowing his brother's terror of heights, but nothing that Dean wouldn't have played on Sam. 

He smiled ruefully at the memory, and noticed that, oddly enough, the section of the park containing the Ferris wheel was not circular, but rather five-sided, roughly the shape of a pentagram. Well, it just went to prove, clown were fucking evil.

Sam frowned. He rummaged in the glove compartment again and grabbed a pencil. He traced some lines onto the park map. That's why it looked so familiar. The park had been laid out like a giant devil's trap.

But why would...?

And then it all came together.

Sam was out of the car, running hard.

“Dean! Cas!”

 

Dean was hanging by a thread.

The trouble was, there were no threads.

He had managed to knock Bigfoot off of Cas by being a complete idiot and jumping into the sewer pit along with them, but then the monster had regained its senses and hurled him down in the direction of the cliff. He was within a couple feet of the edge now, pushing against the steady current of the oozing sludge.

“Cas!” he screamed.

There was nothing to hang on to, and the bottom was literally as slick as shit, and it kept sloping more and more downwards the closer you got to the edge, and Dean was fucking close to the edge right now. He scrambled for a handhold, and only slipped further down.

“CAS!” 

Cas, who had now roused, was trying to use the wooden stake Dean had dropped, but it was about as effective as a toothpick on a grizzly bear. And this thing was three times bigger and about twelve times angrier than any grizzly bear. Bigfoot swung a paw, missing Cas, but shattering the stake.

Dean felt a foot slip over the edge. “Cas. Hurry!”

Bigfoot lunged to take a large bite out of Cas. By some uncanny stroke of luck, Cas managed to lodge a piece the broken stick into the thing's open mouth, sticking its jaws open. It flailed, frustrated. Cas turned and waded through the sludge to grab Dean's wrist, but then there was the problem that neither of them having anything to hold on to.

Dean heard a snap. Bigfoot had managed to shatter the stick. It squinted, one-eyed and furious at Dean and Cas, and began to slip and stide towards them.

“We're gonna die, right?” Dean asked Cas, who was currently the only thing keeping him from sliding off the cliff.

“That seems likely.”

The huge creature approached, roared, raised a paw....

And then froze.

"Exorcziamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica...” 

“Sammy!” shouted Dean.

Bigfoot, looming over them, threw his head back and began to belch out a foul, sulfur-smelling black smoke. After what seemed an eternity, the smoke spun in a spiral, and then dissipated.

As for Bigfoot, he goggled, blinked, and then leaned entirely too far, toppling off the edge. As Dean sqeezed his eyes shut in terror, there was a moment of silence, followed by a giant splash in the water below.

Cas meanwhile had somehow found his footing, and now grasped Dean under the armpits, pulling him clear of the edge. 

“What the hell, Sammy,” said Dean.

“I'm not useless!” Sam announced.

Dean looked at Cas. They were both completely coated in the toxic sludge. “No, you're not useless,” he told his brother.

Sam stared down at them. “Phew. You guys smell foul!”

 

Cas looked like a drowned kitten. He blinked up through dripping bangs, arms clamped over his pale chest.

Sam had found a hose and, miraculously, the park hadn't had its water turned off after all these years. He'd gotten Dean and Cas to strip down to their skivvies, and the had applied some water pressure to the mess, standing well upwind of them. 

Dean had toughed out the cold water, but Cas cowered, shivering under the onslaught.

“Tetanus shots. Gamma globulin. Maybe Hep A shots. Cas, you know if your vessel has been vaccinated?”

“I don't know, Sam,” Cas whispered.

“So the park is basically a giant devil's trap?” asked Dean.

“Yeah,” said Sam. “I think the original owner may have planned it for a specific demon. That's why he abandoned it.”

“And then when Bigfoot comes wandering by....”

“The demon switched meatsuits. But he was still unable to leave.”

“Poor beast,” shivered Cas.

Dean slapped him on the back in an encouraging manner. “Hey, dude, don't be so down, you bagged Bigfoot!”

“I can't help but feel he was an innocent party. And now he's dead.”

“We don't know he's dead.”

“Dean,” laughed Sam. “He fell off a cliff.”

“Ah, but you can never be sure, you know. He's like Godzilla!”

“Bigfoot is like Godzilla?”

“I think that's good enough for now,” Dean announced, pointing a drippy hand at the hose.

Sam cranked off the faucet and picked up the ragged towels he'd scavenged from the back of the car. He tossed them over to Dean and Cas, being careful to keep his distance. “You can't keep treating us like we're toxic waste,” Dean protested.

“Sure I can,” said Sam.

“Hey. You notice something, Cas?”

Cas dabbed himself with a towel. “Sam isn't sneezing, Dean.”

“Yeah. What's the deal?”

Sam paused. He tried a cough, but it wasn't very convincing. “I dunno. The adrenaline, maybe?”

“He confronted his fear,” said Cas, brushing water out of his eyes. “Perhaps that is a contributing factor.” Dean laughed and applied his own towel to Cas’s hair. He still had a few kinks with the whole human showering thing. 

Sam handed over sets of spare clothing, still standing well back of his toxic buddies. “You think that’s what it is? That’s funny, because Dean had to confront one of his phobias too.”

“What would that be? And, why do these pants say ‘juicy’ on the butt?” asked Dean, regarding the ragged sweat pants Sam had given him.

“I dunno. They were in the trunk. You keep some weird shit in that trunk, you know.”

“You confronted your fear of heights, Dean,” Cas informed him. He looked dubiously at his board shorts Sam had supplied before pulling them on.

“Well, I guess so. Not that I’m getting on a fucking Ferris wheel again any time this century.”

“So what did you confront, Cas?” asked Sam.

“I’m sorry?” And there was the canted head again.

“Hey, yeah, we need some narrative symmetry here,” said Dean.

Sam gawped at Dean. “What?” 

“I read!” Dean told him. He turned back to Cas. “What are you afraid of, Cas?”

“Me, most probably,” came a very familiar voice.

Dean felt a chill slide down his spine. “Death,” he said to the newcomer. “This is … unexpected?”

“Or perhaps he fears a wardrobe malfunction,” quipped Death, tilting up his sunglasses to rest on the top of his head and reaching over to finger the hem of Cas's UC Santa Cruz Banana Slugs T shirt. Cas went even more pale than usual. 

“So, to what do we owe the pleasure?” asked Sam.

“Yeah, I sort of thought you were done with us, uh, so to speak,” said Dean.

“Due to current circumstances, we have come to possess certain interests in common. I rather think an alliance of sorts might prove to be mutually beneficial.”

“Circumstances?” said Dean.

“And what kind of alliance?” asked Sam.

Cas said nothing at all.

Death's featured settled into a moue. “I find I'm a bit peckish. Would you mind terribly moving this discussion to a venue where food might be available?”

Sam and Dean exchanged a look. “Uh. Sure,” said Dean.

And then the four were there no more.


	4. Spoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Death appears and gives the boys a task.

**Title:** Spoon  
 **Fandom:** Supernatural  
 **Author:** tikific  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Characters/Pairings:** Dean/Cas, Sam, Death  
 **Warnings:** Cursing. Spoilers up through S8.  
 **Word Count:** 4,200  
 **Summary:** Death appears and gives the boys a task.  
 **Notes:** This is the sequel to Clowntime is Over and takes place in the same universe as Generator and Save Rite. You can read them too. Or not.

 

“I highly recommend the fish and chips. The portion size is most generous here.”

The other three members of the party looked around nervously. The four of them were crowded into a booth at a small, rural diner. Dean heard gulls cawing outside, meaning they were still somewhere near a sea coast. “My car,” said Dean, who half rose.

“In the parking lot,” said Death. 

Dean peered out the window relieved to see his baby situated in an end spot. “Oh, yeah. Uh. Cool.” He sat back down beside Cas and extended an arm across the back of the seat, behind the nervous ex-angel's back.

Sam, who was seated next to Death, obligingly picked up one of the laminated menus. “I don't suppose they have salads here?”

“Yes. And you would find it to be quite tasty, if you enjoy wilted lettuce drowning in vinegar.” Death wrinkled his aquiline nose at the prospect.

“I'm trying to watch what I eat,” Sam told him with a bit of forced jocularity. “You know, to avoid _you_ as long as possible.”

“Well, you are an abject failure at that, then.” Death cocked an eyebrow.

“I think you're losing a step, Death,” said Dean, surveying the diner and then leaning close over the table. “All these people in here: they're still alive.”

“I _had_ noticed,” sniffed Death. “Oh, here we are!” A wait person had arrived with three very large baskets of deep fried seafood, and one bowl of salad consisting of greens which, one supposed, were freshly picked at some point in time. “I hope you don't mind, I took the liberty of ordering for the table. There is only so much witty banter one might take in a day, and, well, you three are not getting any younger.”

Sam forked up a tangle of desiccated greenery. “You were right about the salad,” he sighed. Cas picked up an odd-shaped batter-dipped delicacy, glared at it, and then, his head canted at a twenty degree angle, politely held it over Sam's plate. Sam plucked it off of Cas's fork. “Yeah, thanks, Cas, maybe there's actual nutrition in there somewhere.” He cracked off the crispy fried batter to examine the soft, white protein center.

Death sawed off a delicate fragment of cod with his knife and fork. “Sam, if I may say, you oughtn't be so fussy. In actuality, this insignificant planet of yours is really overdue for another asteroid impact, but I simply can't tear myself away from the food.”

“Try the fried clams! They're amazing!” urged Dean, whose mouth was already quite impolitely full.

Cas speared another batter-fried morsel, but then let it drop back in the basket. “Why did you bring us here?” he demanded of Death.

“For the food. And the company. I must say, I much prefer this latest incarnation of yours, Castiel. Though the insanity phase was … diverting. Angels, sadly, have never been among my favorite creatures.” Death's dark eyes narrowed to regard the bite of deep-fried salmon cheek on the end of his fork. “But I suppose you are regardless interested in that little blue vial Metatron now keeps on one of his many dust-ridden bookshelves.”

Cas was suddenly all ears, leaning forward. “What do you want of me?”

Dean put a hand on Cas's shoulder and tugged him back gently. “Cas.”

“I thought that might pique some interest.” The thin lips pulled into a grimace that may have been a smile. “I shall require all three of you, I think, to complete the tasks.”

“Tasks?” said Dean, waving a hand. “Hey, sorry, no dice. We've wasted too much time on trials. No more of that horse shit.”

Death’s tone was soothing. “Ah, now, you must have learned you can't believe everything you read on a strange tablet, now can you?” He inclined his head towards Sam, knowing look on his immortal face. “Let me ask you, Dean, what is it worth to you to have your brother once again, as it were, _in the pink?_ ”

“I'm listening,” said Sam, pushing away his limp salad.

“Sammy,” warned Dean, but now it looked like it was two-to-one.

“Three tasks. That is all I shall ask of you.”

“This is sounding depressingly familiar,” Dean told him, but Death was already holding out an object from his vest pocket.

“And here is the first task: you must stave off a flood, using only this spoon.” He placed the sliver implement in Cas's outstretched hand.

“What?” said Dean, who unsuccessfully made a snatch at the spoon. “Oh, great. And next we pick up all the sand on the beach with tweezers, right?”

“Now, we must make haste,” Death told them. “The _chef de cuisine_ here has advanced coronary artery disease. I had been holding off, as I wanted to savor one last meal.” There was a crash and a scream from the direction of the kitchen. Cas, Dean and Sam all jerked around to stare in that direction as there were shouts and one of the waitresses took off running. 

Death wiped his mouth with a monogrammed silk handkerchief. “There we are. I should leave a nice tip, and then we're off.”

“Off where?” asked Dean, as Cas pulled a much-crumpled five dollar bill from his pocket and put it on the table.

And then they were quite suddenly no longer at the diner.

“Okay, I am getting seriously pissed off about all this zapping around!” fumed Dean. They looked around. The surroundings had changed: they were now along a lonely country roadway on the outskirts of a small town. Judging from the ass-load of pine trees visible everywhere they were still somewhere in the Pacific Northwest.

The Impala, to Dean's relief, was nearby, but Death was no longer in evidence. “What the hell? So where are we supposed to prevent this flood?”

“Uh, Dean,” said Sam, pointing to Cas, who now stood under a big yellow sign. It depicted a stick man fleeing a cartoon wave, and the words, “Tsunami evacuation route.”

“We're supposed to hold off a tidal wave?” said Dean.

“It's more properly termed a tsunami,” Cas told him. Cas was still clutching Death's silver spoon.

“With a spoon?” Dean shook his head with frustration. “Should we go into town and nose around a little?”

“You sure you wanna walk around in broad daylight dressed like that?” chuckled Sam.

Dean pulled at his waistband: he hadn't changed clothes since the impromptu cold shower in Clownland, so he was still wearing a pair of ratty sweat pants with the word “JUICY” splashed across the butt. (Cas, for his part, was clad in plaid board shorts and a T shirt touting the UC San Diego mascot.) “Aw, crap. I need to change clothes. Do you think Death grabbed our stuff?” he asked, going to open the Impala's trunk.

“The stuff you got soaked in the sewer line? I hope he burned them,” said Sam. “Or maybe hurled them into the sun.”

“Maybe we could find a laundromat in town.” 

“If they have a hazardous waste disposal unit.”

Dean squinted up the road as he opened the trunk. He grinned and pulled out a gym bag. “Oh, hey, we got our luggage! Death is an awesome bellhop.” 

“Uh, I’m sure he’d love to hear you saying that about him.”

After he and Cas had run behind a convenient evergreen to change into clothing Dean found more hunter-appropriate, the threesome strolled into town, the parties expressing a range of emotions, from annoyance to curiosity. Dean's mood was not improved by what they found as they walked a while down the main street. The town was mostly deserted, but for knots of teenaged girls, who would gather around a shop front, snap photos, giggle madly, and then flutter off.

“More _Twilight_ crap,” sighed Dean, passing yet another tacky tourist shop. Cas speculatively held up a “Team Jacob” T shirt to measure it for size, but Dean grabbed it and tossed it back into the pile. 

“What I don't understand is how we're supposed to use Death's spare silverware to prevent an undersea earthquake,” said Sam, who held up said spoon.

“Maybe you guys coulda thought to have _asked_ him before he zapped off?” Dean grumbled.

“If I still had my powers, I could venture out to the fault line perhaps,” Cas mused.

“But you don't, and don’t get any ideas about paddling off the continental shelf,” Dean told him.

They passed by a collectibles shop. “Dean,” said Cas, picking up a statue, “why is this monkey wearing a fez?”

“Because it's hilarious.” 

“Oh,” said Cas, frowning and setting it down. Dean grinned and picked up a red felt hat from a shelf and placed it on top of Cas’s head, earning an angelic expression of scorn.

There were a number of colorful flags and banners on a table out front, flapping in the wind. “Flags of the world!” said Sam, who was much impressed with the miniature flags.

“What the hell is this flag for?” asked Dean, picking up an blue- and green-striped one.

“Uzbekistan,” Cas told him.

“Uzi-what?” asked Dean, who shrugged. “Gotta love a country named after a machine gun I guess.”

Cas doffed the fez and instead picked up a sparkling rainbow pinwheel and peered at it. Sam took it from him and demonstrated blowing on it. Cas’s face looked like the secrets of all creation had just been revealed to him. 

“I'm not gonna buy that for you, so cut it out,” Dean told him.

“Aw, just take it, babe. Nobody buying my stuff anyway,” came a voice cracked with age.

Dean turned to the speaker, a small, dark-haired woman who was evidently the shop's proprietor. “Hey, no offense. Your stuff is a hundred times better than all the vampire crap!”

“ _Twilight_? Can't say I care for it. My granddaughter likes it. Thinks the vampire boy is cute. I have to say, if something like that was trying to date her, I'd be after it with my shotgun, sure as hell.” And then she spat into the gutter.

Dean grinned, now happy to be in the presence of what was clearly a kindred spirit. “So, you lived here long, ma'am?”

“Call me Beth. Lived here my whole life. And as you probably noticed, I ain't a teenager, not any more.”

“Have you ever been here for a tsunami, Beth?” asked Sam. “Or heard any tsunami warnings?

“Nope. Some young men came by, a few years back, put in those signs. I have yet to see it. This ain’t some tropical isle with the hula-hula girls, you know. The ocean, it stays put here.”

“Huh.” The three men exchanged some puzzled glances.

“Nope. You ask me, we're more likely to be flooded out by that dam.”

Suddenly, all eyes were fixed on the shopkeeper. “Do you have a hydroelectric dam in this vicinity?” Cas asked, his eyes all eagerness. Ever since he had fixed the small Men of Letters system in back of the bunker he had become a great fan of civil engineering projects.

“Yup. Ruined the damn salmon fishing. That's why you don't see anyone around these parts any more. Nothing left but silly teenage girls and their loopy vampires.”

“Dean,” said Sam, who motioned for his brother to follow along. “Hey, uh, look at this shop up here!” Dean and Cas followed him away from Beth’s shop. “So what if the flood we're supposed to stave is the one caused by the dam?” asked Sam, pretending to be fascinated by an 8x10 picture of Robert Pattison.

Dean halted, crossing his arms. “Okay. Now instead of flying over to the sea bed, we're gonna blow up the dam? With a fucking spoon?”

“I am intimately familiar with the workings of hydroelectric dams, Dean!” said Cas.

“It's fucking up the ecology, Dean,” Sam told him. “You heard Beth. It's diminishing the salmon population!”

“Fish? Fish is what I just ate for lunch, Sammy. I'm not risking my ass – and yours – for Charlie the Tuna.”

“But Dean-”

“Sam, you know what security is like at dams nowadays? We try fucking around, we'd have the feds on us before you can say ‘fish sticks.’”

“Dean.” Sam looked back at Beth's store and smiled. “I got an idea!”

“Wait, you're being sneaky and underhanded now?” asked Dean. Sam nodded eagerly. “Well, I should say that's my job, but I do like this development.”

“One thing,” said Sam, raising a long index finger. “Cas, you remember that cartoon we showed you? The one with the moose and squirrel?”

Cas’s features deepened into a vast frown. “I didn't understand that cartoon, Sam.”

“No problem. But there's just one thing.”

 

The long black car pulled up before the gates, flags on the grill proudly flapping in the wind. The guard in the booth did a double take when the driver cranked down the window and he was confronted with two serious-looking suited individuals seated in the front seat, both glaring at him through reflective sunglasses.

The driver flashed some kind of diplomatic badge. “Uzbek ambassador is here for the scheduled visit. Sorry, we're a little early.”

The guard blinked. This was his summer job, and he had been trying to complete the _New York Times_ Sunday crossword puzzle. He flailed around a bit and came up with a clipboard. “Uhhhh. I don’t have you on the schedule?”

There was suddenly a rumble from the back seat: the deepest voice the guard had ever heard, barking out something in a strange foreign language. “No, sir, they don’t have you on the schedule,” the very large, very important looking man in the passenger seat was saying.

This produced a torrent of ill-tempered words from the back seat. “Yes sir,” said the passenger. “Well try to get it straightened out.”

The guard quickly decided that whatever was going on, it was definitely above his pay grade. “Uh, hey, but, I’m pretty small potatoes here. They don’t tell me anything! Why don’t you head on up and, uh, they’ll take care of you at the office?”

More gobbledygook from the back seat.

“Yessir. We’re heading in now, sir.” 

“The parking lot is just up the hill,” the guard told them apologetically.

The driver gave the guard a curt nod and sped inside.

Dean cranked up the window. “Hey, Cas, is that really Uzi?”

“Uzbek,” corrected Sam.

“Yes, Dean. It is a Turkic language. Was I doing well at acting irritated?”

“That was awesome. You sounded really pissed off.”

“I informed the guard that I had had connubial relations with his grandparent.”

Sam frowned. “Uh. Funnier in Uzbek?”

“I just don’t know what you guys plan to do what we get inside,” said Dean.

“Hey, weren’t you the one who told me you can get anywhere with a suit, an ID badge and an attitude?”

“That’s what I don’t understand, Sammy, when did you turn into me?”

“Come on, Dean. We’re improvising!”

“I still have the spoon,” said Cas.

“Cas! Put away the spoon and act like an Uzi. Here we are!” said Dean.

Sam reached over and, to Cas’s utter disappointment, snatched away the utensil.

As the Impala pulled up in the parking lot a small committee of mid-level managers stepped out to gape in surprise as two government agents stepped out, followed by a rumpled man wearing a fez.

“I bring the greetings of country of Uzbekistan to the peoples of United States of Washingtonian!” declared the man in the fez. He had a strange accent that sounded sort of halfway between Russian and Spanish. One of the mid-level managers reached out a hand to shake. Cas grabbed him and kissed him on both cheeks. The mid-level manager stepped back, badly shaken, as the rest of them shrunk away.

“I bring presents from mother country of Uzbekistan,” he declared, and Sam handed out key rings with an impressive crest featuring a roaring lion.

“Oh, thank you,” said a mid-level manger.

“Why does it say, ‘Twilight?’” asked another mid-level manager.

“Kristen Stewart is very big in his country,” Dean whispered. The mid-level manager nodded hastily and put the key ring in a pocket. He didn’t want to raise too much of a fuss lest the man in the fez get an urge to kiss him.

“Ambassador Jomanineedadrinkazov will now commence a tour the facility,” Sam told them.

“Hey.” As everybody filed into the facility, Dean pulled aside one of the mid-level managers. “Which way is the can? It’s a long road from Uzi-ville.”

The man pointed the direction, and Dean, with Sam tagging along, peeled off from the crowd, walking down a long shag-carpeted hallway towards the men’s room.

“Is that even an Uzbek accent?” Dean asked Sam.

“Does it matter?” his brother chuckled, pleased at his own perfidy. “I just told him to talk like Boris Badenov. Wait, are we really going to the bathroom?” he asked Dean.

“Yeah. I think I overdid on that Twilight lemonade.” They entered the cramped bathroom. Dean took one look at the urinal, which was stuck in flushing mode, and found a stall. Sam paused to regard his hair in the mirror above the urinal. “We still gotta figure out what to do with Death’s spoon,” Dean called from inside the stall.

Sam pulled the spoon out of his pocket and scrutinized it. “Cas will figure it out. I told him to make them take him to the control room.”

“I gotta say, Sammy, having Cas act like a foreigner was brilliant.”

“I am that good.” Sam was unfortunately so entranced by his own magnificent sideburns that he didn’t see Dean coming out of the stall. The door knocked into Sam, and he lost his grip on the spoon, which, after a bit of fumbling, fell into the urinal, and was quickly flushed away.

“Fuck!” opined Dean.

Sam merely gawped.

“Well, I’m not going after it! I’ve had my fill of sewers for the day,” said Dean. 

And then the urinal began to back up. 

“Whoa, these guys built a dam, and they have no idea how to plumb a men’s room?”

“Dean,” said Sam, eyeing the waters now creeping over from under the stall Dean had just vacated.

“Son of a bitch! Let’s get out of here.”

The Winchesters hastened out of the rapidly flooding washroom and back down the hallway. “Where do you think they took Cas?”

 

“I am wanting to see methodology of opening sluice.”

Cas reached under his odd red monkey hat to scratch his head. The felt was itchy. He irritably took it off and set it down on the desk beside him. He had tried to convey to Sam that red wool monkey hats were not the traditional dress of Uzbekistan, nor was the cartoon character Boris Badenov’s manner of speaking reflective of an Uzbek accent. But Sam assured him that it wouldn’t matter, and indeed, these humans seemed fooled by the ruse. 

He wished, not for the first time, and certainly not for the last time, for the return of his powers, if only for a few minutes. He could have easily stunned the few personnel in the room and then opened the sluice to drain the artificial lake in back of the dam. He hadn’t spent a lot of time studying this project in depth, but he had already determined that whoever designed the dam had made a mathematical error somewhere along the line: the concrete had not been laid in thick enough, not by several centimeters, and the walls eventually would be breached by the tremendous water pressure. It was actually fortunate that Death had sent them here, though Cas puzzled at the metaphysical conundrum of the great reaper trying to stave off mortality. Why wouldn’t he want to collect more souls?

He had reached this point in his philosophical musings when a great drop of water came down from the stained ceiling and plopped right on the head of one of the humans.

“Oh, fuck me. Not again,” grumbled a feisty, red-bearded human. “Oh, uh, forgive me, Mr. Ambassador.” 

Cas blinked in confusion, and then remembered that the men were all using that salutation to address him now. He still found subterfuge to be disorienting. “You are forgiven,” he assured the man, making the sign of the cross over him.

The man looked at him dubiously, and then told everyone, “If it’s the men’s room again we gotta evacuate. I don’t wanna get written up by public health again.”

Everyone nodded and stood up, stretching. Cas noticed the guy at the control terminal didn’t bother to log out. 

He got an idea. A fairly devious idea. Dean, he decided, would approve.

 

Sam and Dean stood in the lobby, watching the dam’s current staff saunter out. They had found out, to their relief, that a bathroom flood was evidently a routine occurrence around these parts. Thus they were not as yet wanted men. However, there was still the dilemma of how to retrieve Death’s spoon from the bowels of the sewer system. Sam had suggested rock-paper-scissors, but for once, Dean had declined the challenge.

“Oh, hey, Ca- Mr. Ambassador!” Dean hailed as the ex-angel emerged into the lobby.

Cas clutched Dean’s lapel. “I have forgotten culturally important red monkey hat!” he pleaded.

The mid-level manager who had been escorting Cas squinted in puzzlement at Dean. “We gotta go retrieve his fez, man. Important stuff. International relations could be in jeopardy!”

The guy shrugged. “Just don’t step in the sewer water.”

Dean sighed. “Been there, done that.” Dean and Cas walked until they were out of sight of the lobby, and then both broke into a run towards the control room. “They showed me how the facility operates, Dean,” Cas huffed as they reached the control room and hurried inside. “But I don’t know how to employ the spoon.” 

Dean smiled. “Just do your thing. Sam already took care of the spoon.”

Cas looked in puzzlement at Dean for a moment. And then he punched in the correct controls at the compute to open the sluice to full, topping this off by throwing the computer against the wall, which effectively stuck the gate into an open position.

“Don’t forget your hat,” laughed Dean, lobbing the fez at Cas as they prepared to vacate the room. They hastened back to Sam and, and after an improvised speech touting the great strength of America-Uzbeki alliance, jumped in the car and peeled out at five miles an hour over any applicable speed limit.

“Uzbekistan,” mused one of the mid-level managers.

“Hey,” said another mid-level manger, harkening to the sound of rushing water, “was that sluice supposed to be open?” 

 

“We have our own room tonight?” Cas looked around the motel room in wonder.

Dean smiled and hopped onto the bed. “It's a treat,” said Dean, lying back and putting his hands underneath his head. “You done good today. With the ambassador thing.”

“It was Sam's idea,” said Cas modestly. He sat on the edge of the bed. “Do you think our mission was successful?”

“Well, we obviously haven't heard from Death yet. But when Sam's letter gets to the newspaper, I'll bet they close down that dam permanently. And then Beth will get to go back to selling fishing tackle instead of vampire T shirts.”

Cas nodded, and let Dean tug him down to lie next to him. They lay there for a while, side by side, staring up at the ceiling in silence.

“Cas?”

“Yes, Dean?”

Dean shifted to roll over, facing Cas. He went up on one elbow. “Could you say something, you know, in Uzbek?”

Cas studied Dean's face for a time, and then spoke in an oddly-accented foreign language, his voice soft and low.

Dean's mouth edged into half a grin. “What did you say? I have the mouth like a goldfish or something?”

Cas put a hand up, tracing the side of Dean's face with one long finger. “I said you are very beautiful.”

Dean's breath caught, for a moment, in his throat.

 

Sam peered down at his laptop and smiled. Tomorrow, he would find a printer and drop his anonymous missive in the mail. 

He wanted to find a library as well. After a bit more research, he had begun to suspect there were irregularities in the environmental impact statement. There may well be a scandal. Indictments!

It was funny, they hadn't fought a single monster that day - that is if you didn't count the omnipresent Edward and Jacob - and yet this had possibly been one of their most successful “hunts” ever. He closed his laptop, thinking, and went to grab a glass of water from the bathroom. 

Maybe he should talk to Dean and Cas? Maybe there was room in the whole “saving people” agenda for more than just ganking vampires. He took a big swallow of the water, and then leaned over, splashing cold water on his face. It felt refreshing.

He straightened up, doing a double-take at the mirror image.

There was another being in the bathroom, staring over his shoulder.

“Moose! What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?”


	5. Carhenge Apocalypse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter Crowley, stage left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took me a while to get this chapter up. It was in the 90s last weekend, and my brain kind of melted.

**Title:** Carhenge Apocalypse  
 **Fandom:** Supernatural  
 **Author:** tikific  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Characters/Pairings:** Dean/Cas, Sam, Death, Crowley  
 **Warnings:** Cursing. Spoilers up through S8.  
 **Word Count:** 6,400  
 **Summary:** Enter Crowley, stage left.  
 **Notes:** Carhenge is a real place, but it’s not limited to Chevys. This story is the sequel to _Clowntime is Over_ and _Spoon_ and takes place in the same universe as _Generator_ and _Save Rite_. I guess I need a masterpost, huh?

 

“What do you think you're doing, Moose?”

Sam grabbed a towel to dab at his dripping face. “Crowley, what the fuck are you doing in my motel room?” Sam had stepped into the bathroom to wash his face, but glanced up into the mirror to behold the King of Hell peering over his shoulder. “Who do you think you are, anyway? Bloody Mary?”

“Welllll,” the demon told him, singsong voice, “I could have gone next door,” he explained, pointing in the general direction of Dean and Cas's room, “but I'm afraid it's rather ugly in there at present.” He made an exaggerated shudder.

Sam held up a hand. “No details.”

“What does that mentally-damaged angel see in your brother? No offense.”

“None taken.”

“It's not as if I didn't offer him my most sincere affection. What could I have done wrong?”

“And why am I suddenly Mr. Lonely Hearts?” sighed Sam. “It's not as if I currently have a love life.”

“Ah, yes. You and that vituperative animal doctor. Did you want me to smite her husband for you?”

“No!”

“Just a little? Around the edges?”

Sam stalked out of the bathroom, hoping that maybe Crowley was merely a hallucination and wouldn't follow him. Suddenly mental illness seemed a better fate than the company of the King of Hell. But at any rate, he was to be disappointed. “Crowley,” he repeated, with scarce hope of anything resembling a straight answer, “what are you doing here?”

“I’ve come about your ill-considered deal with Death.”

“How the hell do you know about-? Oh, right.”

Crowley strolled around the room, picking up an ashtray. This week's motel had a gambling theme for some reason, so the ashtray had a large picture of cartoon dice in the middle. Evidently, someone had rolled snake eyes. “You should have come to me first. That way you wouldn't have cocked it up.”

“How did we fuck it up?” Sam sat down on the edge of a bed. The bedspread was patterned with playing cards: the four of clubs, repeated over and over and over again. 

Crowley crossed his arms and looked smug. “Well, it isn't a deal, is it?”

“It's not one of _your_ deals. No twenty-mile-long contract to sign.

“It's not a deal at all!” Crowley raised an index finger. “And therein lies your problem.”

“What?” 

But any reply to Sam's question was interrupted by the door that separated his room from the one next door suddenly flying open and Dean, clad only in boxer briefs and an AC/DC T shirt, appearing in the doorway like the Underwear Avenger. “Freeze, Crowley!” he bellowed, pointing a sawed off shotgun.

“Oh, bother,” tutted Crowley. He snapped his fingers and the shotgun flew from Dean's hands. But at the same time the main room door quietly slipped open to reveal Cas, dressed only in raggedy sweatpants that had the word, “JUICY” printed in script over the ass. He tossed something that looked like a small knit blanket at Crowley. It draped over the demon's head like a net. 

Crowley stood in place, fuming and struggling with it. He turned around, a full 360 degrees, but didn't move from the spot where he was standing. “And what the ever living _fuck_ is this?”

“Pull your head through the hole,” Cas told him. 

Crowley found the opening in question. He stuck his head through, like pulling on a shirt, and then gripped the garment and stared, regarding the intricate pattern that had been incorporated into the design. “A devil's trap?”

“Devil's trap poncho!” said Dean, who had a big, silly grin on his face. He now also had a proud arm around Cas's shoulders.

“Well. Nice work, I supposed,” Crowley allowed. The stitches were very even.

“Yes, I designed a devil's trap, and executed the design utilizing the human hobby of knitting,” said Cas, utter gravity in his voice. “I have found crafts work to be relaxing.”

“Though it's kinda girlie,” Dean put in, giving Cas's shoulder an affectionate squeeze.

Cas scowled. “As I have explained before, I am not a gendered being. Besides which, why should an association with the female sex necessarily be insulting?”

“Aw, it's not an insult. But it _is_ kinda girlie.”

“Crowley,” said Sam, who had gotten a bit fed up. “Tell us: what the hell are you _really_ doing here?”

Crowley spread his hands in supplication. “I am trying to do you chaps a favor, if you will simply allow me! As you'll recall from the previous thrilling episode, thanks to Moose’s ministrations, I am part human now....”

“Seriously, Crowley! You are _not_ trying to make me feel guilty,” pouted Sam, throwing Standard Bitchface number 27E Crowley's way.

“...So I am trying to turn over a new leaf. In that regard, I hope to extricate you from the, er, _situation_ in which you find yourself regarding that old phony, Death.”

“So, you regard me as a 'phony,' Mr. Crowley,” said Death, who was now standing in the room, munching on the Toblerone chocolate from the mini bar. “In what sense do I fail to meet your obviously high standards?”

Crowley didn't reply, but only emitted a small, feminine-sounding shriek and grabbed Sam, pulling the tall hunter to stand between himself and Death.

“By the way, that is a fetching ensemble you are wearing, Mr. Crowley,” said Death.

“Thank you,” said Cas. “I knit it.”

“Ah. I find crafts work to be calming.”

“Your deal with the boys,” said Crowley, peeking out from behind a rather unwilling Sam. “It's no deal at all!”

“I don't recall saying it was,” said Death. He touched a long, pale finger to his chin. “Is anyone else feeling peckish?”

“Well, a little,” Dean admitted, and henceforth he was transported, along with the rest, to a place that smelled of burnt cheese and Lysol. Dean flinched as two laughing children ran by and nearly collided with him. He winced as he felt his brother, sitting beside him on the wood-grained plastic bench, gripping his shoulder right on his angel-print scar. “Sammy, that's gonna leave a bruise.” 

“Dean,” said Sam. The younger Winchester looked truly traumatized. Dean glanced around the premises and soon realized why. 

“Oh, hey! This is Ratty McRattail's Good Time Pizza N Stuff,” said Dean, recognizing the grinning visage of the rodent mascot immortalized in fiberglass up on a dais above the sticky table at which they were seated. “Dude,” he told his brother, “I thought you were just freaked by clowns?”

“This is close enough!” said Sam, his voice cracking.

“I do apologize for the surroundings,” said Death, who was dabbing at a gooey pool of spilled Dr. Pepper on the table with a silk handkerchief. “And I should warn you, the pizza here is vile....”

“Uh, yeah, Death, pizza or not, I think my brother has been through enough today....”

“But the deep fried mushrooms are, surprisingly enough, exquisite.”

“Look, I gotta think of Sammy- Did you say deep fried mushrooms?” asked Dean, snatching up a menu.

Death looked prim. “Kindly look underneath the 'Snax N Stuff' section.”

“Dean!” protested Sam.

Crowley huffed, rubbing at an unidentifiable stain on the forearm of his suit jacket with a paper napkin dipped in ice water. “So, does nobody care about the deal?”

It was Death's turn to emit a small sigh. “You are crass, aren't you? Please be aware, Mr. Crowley, that you amuse me even less than Lucifer.”

Crowley scowled at Death. “Dean. Tell me now, if you complete this entity's little errands, _what will you get in return_?”

“What will I get?” asked Dean, who was still distracted by the menu and its promise of deep-fried fungi.

“ _Quid. Pro. Quo_ ,” said Crowley. 

Sam, who was now hyperventilating, grabbed a paper bag puppet off the table and breathed in and out of it repeatedly.

“Uhhh. Death said Cas gets the five cents back on his bottle of grace, and we get NyQuil for Sam's trial-sniffles. Right?” he asked, turning to Death.

But Death ignored Dean. His eyes were boring into Crowley. “So. You find I am untrustworthy now?” 

“Where is the contract?” Crowley insisted.

“Contract? I find contracts to be demeaning. To all parties.”

“Wait,” said Sam, crinkling his paper bag puppet. “So, if there was no deal, why are we doing this?”

Death set down his menu, brows knitted together in and immortal sort of annoyance. “You are hunters. So then. Hunt.”

And then, to Sam's relief and Dean's intense annoyance, they were no longer in the restaurant. Instead they were all – save Death, who'd taken another poweder – standing outdoors near somebody's field, alongside the Impala. It was evening. Mosquitos were buzzing, a soft breeze was blowing, and the sun was just sinking over the horizon.

“Hey, I wanted my damn mushrooms!” wailed Dean, rubbing his hungry tummy.

Crowley, who was still with them, shot his cuffs and glared. “That was rather annoying. I haven’t much experience with playing ethical, but I can’t say I much care for it so far.”

“Where the heck are we?” asked Sam.

“Damn!” said Dean. “I'm still in my underpants.” He looked at Cas, who remained clad only in the “juicy” sweatpants.

“I don't mind him like that,” said Crowley, who was standing a little bit too close to the former angel. Dean stepped between them, staring down at Crowley. 

“All right, all right. I'll take care of it.” Crowley snapped his fingers, and Dean was suddenly dressed in his flannel hunter finery. Dean looked down, pleased, and then glanced back over his shoulder at Cas.

Cas, who was looking especially perplexed, was dressed, head to six-inch-heels, as a French maid.

Sam clumsily tried to hide a guffaw with a cough.

“Crowley!” barked Dean. “Fix him! Now!”

Crowley rolled his eyes and snapped his fingers again. Cas was now dressed in his familiar old suit and trench coat.

“Crowley!” said Dean. 

Cas surveyed his ensemble and smiled, touching Dean's shoulder. “But I like this, Dean.”

“Cas,” Dean said softly. “We've talked about this. They can yank on your tie. Or the coat could get caught in something!” 

“Who is 'they,' Dean?” asked Cas sensibly.

“What?”

“He's got a point, Dean,” said Sam. “What are we doing here?”

“And I am not a hunter,” said Crowley. “Although I could adopt the attire.” He snapped yet again and emerged in plaid-draped glory. “Now, could someone kindly relieve me of this?” he inquired of the devil's trap poncho.

Dean and Cas looked at each other for a long moment, which was not anything unusual for them. Finally, Dean nodded, and Cas grabbed the poncho off Crowley.

“Now!” said the King of Hell. “To find our task, and accomplish it!”

It was Sam and Dean's turn to share a puzzled glance. “Crowley,” said Sam. “You didn't just zap out of here when we freed you?”

“No of course not. I told you, Moose, I've turned over a new leaf. I am a new man! I will assist you with your quest, out of the goodness of-”

“You are terrified of Death,” said Cas.

“Well. That too,” Crowley admitted. 

Cas tilted his head at Crowley. “And your teleportation power is currently not functional.”

“You know, you could be annoying, angel,” Crowley told Cas. “Consider yourself fortunate I have a soft spot for ex-mental cases.”

Sam's expression was one of despair over supernatural bickering. “Can we maybe quit this and figure out where we are? And what we're supposed to do?”

“Oh, hey, I think I got that one!” said Dean, who was suddenly grinning from ear to ear. “Come on, and take a look!” 

Cas had popped the Impala's trunk and was tossing the poncho inside. “Death said we were hunting,” Sam pointed out, pulling up the trunk's false bottom to display an array of weaponry. “Should we grab a couplel things first?”

“I doubt we'll need it, but sure,” said Dean, grabbing a 9mm from the trunk and shooing Crowley away. 

“I like guns too!” the demon protested. 

“Why would _you_ need a gun, Crowley?” asked Sam, who had grabbed a sawed off.

“Thanks, I believe, to your pale friend's meddling, my powers are presently behaving in an unreliable manner.”

“Here. Have a pointed stick,” said Dean, shoving a wooden stake his way. Crowley grimaced, but accepted the stake. Cas stuck a small pistol in his waistband and then grabbed an iron knife. 

Then, having extracted sufficient firepower from the car, they headed across the field towards some large obelisks arranged in a rough circle. “This seems … very familiar,” said Cas as they drew near.

Same stared up at the obelisks. “Are those … cars?”

“This is ChevyHenge!” said Dean, who ran ahead to stand in the exact center. “Built by some local lunatic, Bobby Joe Bumper. All of General Motors's finest is here.”

“Wow,” said Sam, who was genuinely impressed. He stood in the center near Dean, taking in the Caprices and Caddys and Skylarks and Vista Cruisers and, yes, Impalas. The heavy vintage cars had been planted in the ground, headlights pointing towards the sky, and some of these in turn served as supporting bases for additional vehicular crossbars.

“I've always wanted to get out here,” said Dean, who seemed lost in an automotive reverie.

“Does anyone else feel that something is not right about this place?” asked Crowley. At which point the ghost appeared before him, and he let out a rather undignified squeal. He didn't even have time to wave his pointed stick at it.

The spirit vanished. “Don't tell me you're spooked by a spook, Crowley?” taunted Sam. The demon glowered at him. 

“Crowley is correct, Dean,” said Cas. “I feel we should leave this place.”

“But it's ChevyHenge, Cas!” 

“Ow!” said Sam, as another ghost appeared behind him and yanked at his hair.

“Hey! No hair pulling!” Dean barked at it. Cas pulled out his iron knife and the phantom dissipated. “Told you to get it cut,” Dean told Sam, who was rubbing his head.

“They are most definitely more annoying than the mosquitos,” said Crowley, slapping the back of his neck.

“Dean!” yelled Sam, as another ghost appeared just behind Dean, wielding an axe. Before the spirit could behead him, Cas knocked Dean down with a flying tackle. The ghost swung and Sam aimed and fired into his midsection with salt rounds.

The ghost vanished, and Dean scrambled up to a sitting position. “That was not cool!” he groused.

“Dean,” said Sam. “Cas and Crowley are right. Something's definitely off here.”

“Son of a bitch.” Dean got to his feet and irritably shook dust from his jeans.

“Maybe we should go check out the visitor's center, over there,” Sam proposed, pointing at a building in the distance.

“With our luck, that's probably haunted too. Come on!” Dean said, giving Cas a hand up. “And let’s figure out why the hell would ghosts be hanging around ChevyHenge? Everybody, _think_.”

“Could be, they were killed in car accidents?” Sam proposed.

“That’s a possibility. But the cars all look fine,” said Dean. 

“That’s true.”

“Cas?”

“Henges are thought to focus paranormal energy,” said Cas. “Perhaps that was the attraction?”

“But focus it for what, exactly? Crowley,” said Dean. “Theories? What's up with the ghosts?”

“Maybe the parties in question were all just terrific wankers during their former existences.”

“Okay, great, that's really helpful.”

“I'm running thin on patience at the moment. I hadn't penciled in running errands for the Grim Reaper on my day planner.”

“He's pouting, isn't he?” asked Dean, opening the door to the visitor's center. “Kings of Hell shouldn't pout. You should be a good sport.”

“I am the ultimate bad sport!” said Crowley, huffing his way through the door.

They entered the visitor's center and were confronted by racks and racks of commemorative T shirts, mugs, bumper stickers, postcards and the like.

There was a small, dark-haired woman folding the T shirts. “Hey, can you help us, ma'am?” Sam asked.

The woman turned around. “Sure thing, honey. And you can call me Beth.”

Dean, Cas and Sam all looked at one another. She was a ringer for the lady named Beth who worked selling tourist trinkets in the small town on the Olympic Peninsula they'd just visited. Washington Beth had been the one who tipped them off about the hazardous dam.

“Uh,” said Dean. “Beth. You don't happen to have a sister, or a cousin, or a close relative over in Washington state?”

“Nope. I'm Nebraska born and bred.”

Dean continued staring. “Well, anyway, we just arrived here at ChevyHenge-”

“Is that your Impala out back?”

“Uh, yes.”

“Good car, the Impala. Bobby Joe would approve.”

“Well, thanks. Anyway, we wanted to know if anybody had observed any … strange happenings in the evenings here?”

“Nope,” Beth assured them. “No tourist reports of strange happenings lately.”

“Oh.” Dean looked disappointed, and Sam shrugged. Cas eagerly browsed through the post cards.

“Nobody goes out to ChevyHenge after dark any more, 'cause of the ghosts.”

“That's good info,” said Dean, as Sam rolled his eyes. 

“Does your town have a library?” asked Sam. “We're, uh, very interested in researching local history.”

“It's on Main Street. Just follow the signs into town.”

“Dean, you need to look at this postcard,” Cas told him. 

“Uh, Cas, we're not really tourists,” Dean whispered. He reluctantly took a look anyway, expecting it was another Jackalope: Cas was fascinated by them. Instead, it was an aerial view of ChevyHenge.

“Do you see these marks, Dean?” asked Cas, pointing to the picture. There were several spots with bare earth around the monument's main circle. “It appears that they are spaces for additional cars.”

“Oh, huh,” said Dean. He turned back to the clerk. “Hey, Beth, is ChevyHenge not finished yet?”

“Would you like to make a donation to the completion fund?” she asked, pointing to a box on the counter that read, “Finish ChevyHenge.”

“So, they still need more cars?” asked Sam.

“Yep. The owner is real particular.”

“Huh. Well, good to know. Thanks! We'll be going- Oh, geez!” he sighed as Crowley shuffled up to the counter with an armload of ChevyHenge T shirts, key rings, snow globes, commemorative plates and tea strainers. Check out took several minutes, and Dean was growing ever more impatient.

“Since when are you into tourist trinkets, Crowley?” asked Dean after they had gotten everything loaded into the Impala’s capacious trunk and were finally driving into town.

“Oh, you know demons,” said Crowley, who was sitting in the Impala’s back seat fiddling with his ChevyHenge toy Cadillac. “Every time I go off they're always bothering me about bringing them something.”

“Your minions want … presents?” asked Sam. 

“And you don't just smite their asses?” asked Dean.

Cas, sitting next to Crowley in the back seat, extended a hand, and Crowley gave him the toy car. Cas inserted a long, notched plastic strip into a hole in the plastic mechanism in back of the car. He quickly ripped the strip back out, and set the car down on the back seat, where it raced over and bumped Crowley in the leg. “That's brilliant!” exclaimed Crowley, picking up the car and staring at it. He leaned over the front bench seat. “Squirrel, we need to pull over right now and get out the other ChevyHenge cars out of the trunk, so we can have races.”

Dean glared at Sam. “You were supposed to make him human. Not a five-year-old.”

“Guess I would've failed the trials anyway,” laughed Sam.

“I feel I'm being patronized!” said Crowley as Cas ran the car along the back behind the seat. Crowley turned to the former angel. “Don't do that! It'll get lost!”

“It will be perfectly fine,” said Cas as Crowley snatched it away.

“You two!” shouted Dean. “Am I gonna have to turn this car around?”

“And go where, exactly?” Sam laughed. 

“You're supposed to be supporting me, not undermining me,” Dean snapped.

Sam squinted at his slightly insane brother. “Dean. We've arrived.” As they had indeed just pulled into Main Street.

“Oh. Yeah. I knew that,” said Dean. He hastily parked the car. “And you two should learn to share!” he barked at the parties in the back seat.

“The demon started it,” said Cas, pointing an accusing finger at Crowley.

“All right,” said Dean, rubbing his hands together when they had debarked. “Sam, you take the King of Toy Cars and get to the library. Cas and I will check out the county clerk's office.”

Sam produced an epic eye-roll at being paired off with Crowley, but nodded and started towards the library.

“Won't these institutions be closed for the night?” asked Crowley as Sam hustled him off.

“Crowley,” said Sam. “Seriously?”

 

Cas and Dean soon found the records office, and, being careful that they weren't observed, went to open the back door. “Like I showed you,” said Dean, handing Cas the lock pick. He stood and observed Cas's work for a moment. “You know, Crowley is a bad influence.”

Cas ceased his motions and turned around to look at Dean. “Dean, I am attempting to concentrate.”

Dean impatiently motioned for Cas to continue. “And I think he's got the hots for you.”

Cas turned and glared, and then went back to the lock. “Crowley utilizes sexual innuendo as a means both for his own amusement and to throw other parties off guard.”

“Well, yeah, he's a dick in general. I mean, he _is_ a demon. But, you know, the sexy maid outfit?”

“I am trying to push that incident aside in my mind,” said Cas, trying the knob, which he found, frustratingly, to be still locked.

“You gotta relax.”

“About the outfit?”

“About the lock! I don't wanna be here all night.”

Cas turned back to Dean once again, his scowl cleaving a deep fissure through his forehead. “You are _distracting_ , Dean.”

“It's not the worst thing I've been called.” Dean tilted his head. “Besides, not as distracting as that outfit.”

Cas attacked the lock. ''Why do you continue to bring up that outfit?”

“I don't. I mean. I dunno.” Dean cracked half a grin. “You musta found it sorta hot, right? I mean, all silky....”

Cas whirled around, words frozen on his lips.

The door popped open.

“Come on, Cas,” said Dean, hustling inside. “What are you waiting for?”

Cas stood still for a very long moment, and then, with a quick look over his shoulder, followed Dean into the records office.

 

“This is weird,” said Sam, who was hunched over the microfilm viewer.

“You mean that anyone continues to use this outdated media,” asked Crowley, He stood in back of the desk and propped an elbow over the back of the screen.

“A lot of car accidents. Fatal car accidents. I mean, a ton, considering how small this town is. See, check this out.”

Crowley wandered around to stand in back of Sam. He leaned forward and squinted at the photograph. “That bears a passing resemblance to your brother's car.”

“Exactly! People with classic cars keep running into trees, stuff like that.”

“Do you have the names?” asked Crowley. Sam handed him a list, and Crowley scanned it. “I know none of these names.”

“Is that surprising?”

“Since becoming King of Hell I recognize the name of each and every soul that has descended to my realm. Comes with the territory. And none of these have, as it were, abandoned all hope.

Sam sat back in his chair. “What are the odds that none of these people went to hell?”

“Considering this is a random sample of humans, I would say, nil.”

“Huh. So they’re all ghosts, I assume? And, what about you? You found anything?”

“Since you have initiated me into this life of crime, Moose?” asked Crowley.

“Oh don't start!”

“Sadly, I lack your skills with any technology more recent than the seventeenth century. However, I also noted that this particular rural branch library still utilizes paper records. So I decided to take a look for local miscreants.” He held up a file, proffering it to Sam.

“Overdue library books?” asked Sam, raising an eyebrow. “You're talking some hardened criminals!”

“One name in particular stood out. A certain Mr. Robert Joseph Bumper.”

“Bobby Joe Bumper? What has he been up to?” asked Sam, leafing through the files. “Wait. He checked out the Grand Grimoire? This library has a grimoire?”

“ _Had_ a grimoire. Mr. Bumper was obviously a man familiar with the process of interlibrary loans.”

“But not so familiar with returning his damn books. So what do we make of this?”

“I think we should see what Squirrel and his angel found out at the clerk's office.”

 

“So is this OK?” Dean asked as they settled into a booth at the local diner. 

“No clowns or giant rats in sight. I'm good,” said Sam, looking around as a sullen wait person distributed ice water and menus. There was a round of orders given and scribbled onto a pad, and then Sam glanced back at his brother and Cas. He leaned forward across the table. “Uh, Cas, you got your shirt on inside-out again.”

Cas glanced down at the shirt and then over at Dean, his face flushed.

“So I take it you didn't get a whole lot done at the records office,” Sam grumbled.

Dean smirked and slung an arm across the back of the booth, behind Cas's shoulders. “Oh, we got a lot done. It seems that there were a number of complaints filed by Bobby Joe Bumper.”

“Complaints agains whom?” asked Sam.

“Billy Ray Bumper.

“Um, any relation?” 

“His brother.”

“They were twins,” Cas explained. “According to their birth certificates, Billy Ray was born approximately two and a half minutes prior to his brother. Thus, he inherited the estate when the parents passed away.”

“Bobby Joe versus Billy Ray?” said Crowley. “It sounds positively Shakespearean.”

“The parents didn't die in a car accident, did they?” asked Sam.

“Yeah,” said Dean. “How did you know?”

“There's been a rash of them. Oh, and Crowley found out Bobby Joe has been checking out arcane literature.”

Dean nearly spit out his coke. “Wait. Crowley actually _did stuff_?”

“Not like the 'stuff' you two were up to, it sounds like,” said Crowley, eyeing Cas.

“Wouldn't you like to know,” said Dean.

“Actually, I would. You didn't capture the encounter on tape, did you?”

“Crowley,” growled Castiel.

“Think of me as a kind of reverse Santa Claus, darling. I'm making my list of who's naughty and who's even naughtier.”

“Crowley, I thought you were turning away from the dark side,” said Dean.

“There is nothing sinful about connubial bliss.”

“Can we PLEASE not talk about this?” pleaded Sam. “Especially when there's food?”

Indeed, the wait person had just delivered a table-full of victuals. “I still miss those mushrooms,” grumbled Dean, stealing a french fry from Cas's plate.

“So, is ChevyHenge possibly Billy Joe's attempt to wreck revenge on Bobby Rae?” asked Cas.

“Wrong hillbilles, Cas,” said Dean, squeezing some ketchup onto Cas's plate and stealing more fries.

Sam huffed. “Those are Cas's fries, Dean.”

“But they always taste better off Cas's plate.”

“The feuding parties in question are _Bobby_ Joe and _Billy_ Ray,” explained Crowley. “But I believe the former celestial being has a point. It is, after all, what I have come to expect between siblings.”

“Hey!” chorused both Sam and Dean, who had continued their bickering over Cas's side dish.

“You must admit that relations between the two of you have been … _contentious_ at times.”

“Naw!” said Dean. “It was always just minor misunderstandings.”

“Like triggering the apocalypse? That was minor?”

Dean waved his hand, as if swatting away a fly, but Sam looked pensive. “Maybe he has a point, Dean,” said Sam, his voice grown quiet.

“Sammy, he's the King of Hell. The only point is at the top of his head.” Dean was about to cut into his steak when there was a screeching of tires outside, followed by the roar of an engine.

Dean froze. And then he leapt up, sending his napkin fluttering off as he charged out the door. Sam and Cas exchanged a baffled look and ran after him, reaching the curb to find Dean there, breathing hard and staring off at the familiar-looking vehicle, now retreating into the distance.

“Baby! _No_!”

Both Sam and Cas stood on the curb near Dean, having no idea what to say or do.

Crowley wandered out, napkin still tucked in his collar, worrying a toothpick. “Don't worry, we'll recover it. You do have LoJack, don't you?”

Dean turned to face the demon. “No, I don't have LoJack.”

“Why don't you have LoJack?”

“I don't want cops to know where my car is!”

“Well, now no one knows where your car is!”

“Anyway, I can guess where it's headed,” said Sam, who had somewhat recovered himself.

Dean was quiet for a moment, and then exclaimed, “Son of a Bitch! We need to find it! Nobody turns my baby into a tourist trap obelisk!”

“Wouldn't it be more of a standing stone?” asked Crowley.

“Or it might possibly be used as a lintel,” suggested Cas.

“Can we quit debating architectural terminology and get my damned car?”

“Can I help you boys?” asked a fellow in a pickup truck who had just pulled up nearby. 

“They stole my car!” said Dean.

“That Impala? That was yours, son?”

“Yes!”

The man nodded. “That was my brother, Bobby Joe. He's always getting into scrapes.”

“Are you Billy Ray Bumper?” asked Sam.

“The same. I could give you a ride out to ChevyHenge, get this all cleared up. But only two of you are gonna fit in the cab.”

“I shall volunteer to ride in the boot,” said Crowley.

“It's a truck, not a frickin' lorry,” said Dean.

“Along with the angel,” Crowley added, grabbing Cas by the back of the shirt and tugging him along.

Dean slapped Crowley's hand off Cas. “You're not going anywhere with the angel,” he whispered.

“Dean. I will be fine,” Cas assured him. 

Dean glared at Crowley. “If he tries anything, poncho him,” he told Cas, who nodded. And then, with an “I'm watching you” gesture towards Crowley, Dean climbed into the cab of Billy Ray Bumper's truck alongside his brother, who was relegated to sitting on the hump.

Cas and Crowley had barely hopped up into the back when the truck peeled out. “That man is in haste!” said Crowley, who was thrown into Cas, though perhaps this was accidentally on purpose. 

Cas maneuvered Crowley to sit down opposite of him, and Dean looked back and repeated the “I'm watching you” gesture, stabbing an accusing finger at Crowley.

“Jealous much?” grumbled Crowley.

Cas was leaning forward, his head tantalizingly near Crowley's. Crowley flushed: yes, he actually colored. It had been a while. “I find I do not much trust Bobby Sue Bumper,” came Cas's purr in Crowley's ear.

“You're referring to the person driving this vehicle?” asked Crowley. Despite the rather brisk air flow in the back of the truck, he had finally removed his napkin from his collar and was currently using it to fan himself. Cas nodded. “I don't much either.”

Cas inclined his head towards the driver. “Demons, or minor deities?”

“They're not any of mine, so I'd put my money on deities. Emphasis on the minor. Fortunately, I still have my wooden stake.” Crowley shot a cuff, and the stake appeared in his hand, causing Cas to spare a quick, disappointed glance at his own hand, which was empty of his angel sword.

It was Crowley's turn to lean forward. “So, how is it going for you, the whole, 'living as a human among yet more humans' thing?”

Cas was looking up the road. “I am … adjusting.”

“Still your old effusive self, I see,” said the demon.

Crowley found he was being stared at. Despite Cas's current not-so-celestial status, his eyes were still piercing. And a rather divine shade of blue. Crowley had always half thought, when he thought about it, that a fine evening would begin by tossing Castiel in a nice hot bathtub and maybe giving him a decent shave. And then dressing him up in a tailored suit or something that actually fit that slim frame, but wasn't too difficult to tear off at the appropriate moment.

“I am considering something.”

Crowley was jerked out of his reverie by Cas's words. “Wot?”

“An important decision.”

Crowley leaned closer.

“Whether or not … to grow a mustache.”

Momentary confusion was followed hard upon by approbation. Crowley snorted. “All right. All right. You got me.”

But there wasn't even a flicker of a smile on that face. “I am asking you, Crowley.”

“I don't give a rat's ass about your facial hair situation.”

Cas shrugged and leaned back, the amazing eyes now pointed up the road. Crowley was left to leer over the chiseled profile for a few minutes. Crowley sighed to the bottom of what would have been a soul, had he possessed one. “What does _Dean_ think?”

“That's your advice?

“That … is my advice.”

“I have another question.”

“By all means. Considering a nose ring, perhaps?”

“When I retrieve my grace, should I return to heaven?”

That one threw Crowley for a loop. “That's … actually a rather good question.”

“That is ChevyHenge up there, isn't it?”

Crowley leaned back against the side of the truck’s bed and peered ahead. Abruptly, he turned to face Castiel.

“Yes, I sense it too,” said Cas.

 

“Why do I always have to ride on the hump?” Sam was whining.

“Because you're younger.”

“When will I stop being younger?”

The truck rolled to a halt, and Dean turned to find himself facing the barrel of a shotgun. “Seriously?” he asked. He looked back over his shoulder to see that his brother, up on the hump, was now being held at gunpoint as well. “Aw! Son of a bitch.”

“At least we found your car,” said Sam, pointing towards the Impala, which was parked near the outer ring of ChevyHenge.

“Go check on the fellas riding in back!” Billy Ray, in the driver’s seat, yelled at Bobby Joe. 

Bobby Joe swiveled his square-ish head on his red neck. “What fellas riding in the back?”

Billy Ray rubbed the back of his own red neck. “I picked up four fellas. Where's the t'others?”

“Must've lost 'em on the road, brother.”

“Fuck my life,” grumbled Billy Ray. “We'll have to make do with two sacrifices.”

“Sacrifices? That doesn’t sound like an awesome Saturday night,” said Dean. “Are you sure you guys wouldn’t be happier with some Netflix and Jiffy Pop?”

“OK, boys, out of the truck, and keep those hands up,” ordered Billy Joe, waving the shotgun for emphasis.

“The ghosts,” Sam told Dean as the brothers Bumper led them towards the middle of ChevyHenge. “They were your victims. They were trying to chase us away for our own good.”

“So who are you? I mean, really?” Dean asked Bobby Joe.

“At one time, men called us Romulus and Remus.”

“Pagan gods,” said Sam. “That was gonna be my guess. After demons.”

“And what's up with the automotive art project?” asked Dean, who saw no down side to delaying these bastards as long as possible.

“Nothing personal, boys. It's about our father, Zeus.”

“Wait, Zeus is dead,” said Sam. “We saw Artemis kill him.”

“Welp, then I guess it _is_ personal! We know he's gone: we're resurrecting him.”

“Yeah, so we can kill him!”

“That's … that's a really well thought out plan,” said Dean, shooting a baffled look at Sam.

“The old bastard raped our mother. He deserves to die!”

“Uh, I understand the resentment, but didn't that result in you guys being born?” asked Sam.

“So we're focusing paranormal energy into this field. Your car will be the final link!”

“You can't make baby into a crossbar!” Dean protested.

“Lintel,” said Sam.

“Shut up,” said Dean.

“Now, we need to consecrate the ground with your life blood, so if you wouldn't mind leaning over and stickin’ out your neck?” asked Billy Ray, who was now holding a rather large axe.

“Uh, any chance of a raincheck?” asked Dean. “It really looks like it's clouding up, and I hate getting wet when I die.”

“Now, die!” yelled Billy Ray, who held up the axe. And then he dropped the axe and looked down in surprise at the wooden stake sticking out of his chest.

“Remus!” yelled Bobby Joe, who found himself suddenly entangled in a knit poncho held over his head by Cas. Crowley yanked his stake out of Billy Ray, and leapt over to plunge it into Bobby Joe's chest. The god gasped, gurgled, and collapsed.

Cas pulled the poncho off of Bobby Joe and smiled smugly. It wasn't the devil's trap poncho: instead, it had arcane lettering incorporated in the design.

“Good timing, guys,” said Sam.

“Yeah, but how did you get away?” asked Dean. “I thought your zapper button was stuck, Crowley.”

“Crowley utilized the energy of paranormal nexus to teleport us to a safe location,” Cas explained. 

“And … you had time for a knitting project?” said Dean.

“Yes, we took advantage of the relativistic time paradox to-”

“Cas! You just bloody saved his life.”

Cas glanced at Crowley, and then the light bulb apparently went on, and he grabbed Dean, pushed him up against an upright Vista Cruiser, and kissed him, deeply, twisting a hand into Dean's short hair.

Sam covered his eyes. “Ew. Crowley. Did you make him do that?”

“I can't force him to do anything. It was merely a suggestion. Oh, and here is something for you, Moose. It was _my_ crafts project from Cas and my interlude in spacetime,” he added, proffering a piece of paper to Sam. 

“What is it?”

“Your contract with Death.”

“A contract? Isn't it about thirty pages too short for one of yours?”

“Moose. New leaf. Now, I need to get back to the old grind. Toodles.” And with that, Crowley was gone in a puff of sulfur.

“But you forgot your CarHenge collectibles,” said Sam.

“That's a contract?” asked Dean, who had briefly paused making out with the ex-angel. “What's it say?”

Sam held it up. “It's actually just one line. _'I solemnly swear I will not be a wanker.’_ that is only two tasks, gentlemen,” said Death, who was now sitting at the head of a long banquet table, as he had, once again, translocated Cas and the Winchesters. “I seem to recall requesting three.”

“Oh, boy,” said Sam.

“Look, Sammy!” said Dean, holding up a dish, his eyes dancing with delight. “Fried mushrooms!”


	6. Coaster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scooby Doo, where the f**k are you?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going out of town, but I wanted to get this up first, since the last chapter kind of left you hanging.

**Title:** Coaster  
 **Fandom:** Supernatural  
 **Author:** tikific  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Characters/Pairings:** Dean/Cas, Sam, Death, Tess  
 **Warnings:** Cursing. Spoilers up through S8.  
 **Word Count:** 6,200  
 **Summary:** Scooby Doo, where the f**k are you?  
 **Notes:** This story is the sequel to Clowntime is Over, Spoon, and Carhenge Apocalypse. It takes place in the same universe as Generator and Save Rite.

 

While Dean continued to stuff his face with the fried mushrooms, Sam checked out the room they now found themselves in. It looked like a medieval banquet room. A _fake_ medieval banquet room, Sam was relieved to observe. At least Death hadn’t yanked their asses back to the Middle Ages! And as there were neither visible clowns nor fiberglass rodents, he managed to remain calm, though he also imagined there wasn’t much in the way of vegetarian fare in this place. 

He turned towards the head of the table, trying his best to keep his voice even and reasonable. “Look. Death. Seriously. It’s not that we _mind_ helping you-“

“I mind.” It was the unmistakable Voice of Cas, erstwhile angel, apparently still intent on vengeance. “Those gods, Romulus and Remus, could have harmed Sam and Dean.” His eyes narrowed down to flinty points, and you could imagine the wings ruffling up and some zap-pow special effects.

“Then we should count it as fortunate we had an ex-angel as well as an ex-demon watching out for them,” sniffed Death.

“You are being unnecessarily elusive. I refuse continued participation in this enterprise until you evince more transparency regarding your methods.”

“You mean to defy me, Castiel?” The hint of a smile. A very dark smile. “That is admittedly _somewhat_ diverting.”

Cas started to rise. “I-.“ But Dean stuck a big hand on his shoulder and Cas found himself pushed back down into his seat. 

“Have a fried mushroom, Cas,” said Dean, holding the tureen over for him. Cas took it in his hands, completely befuddled. “So here’s the thing," Dean continued, munching on a 'shroom. "Death is right, the gods got themselves ganked, and Sam and I are fine. And I figure, given your big, celestial awesomeness, if you didn’t have some use for us, we’d all be skid marks right now.”

Death said nothing, but sat forward a fraction, intertwining his long fingers.

“So,” continued Dean, popping another mushroom in his mouth, “could be you’re playing with us, but, no offense, you don’t strike me as the playful sort.” Dean leaned forward, just a fraction, still acting casual. “Meaning you’re using us crummy little mortals ‘cause you wanna fly under the radar for some reason.”

Death, too, inclined his body slightly forward, fixing Dean with his dark eyes. “For the third task, you might consider,” he said, “venturing outdoors.”

Sam cringed and ducked his head. He slowly sat back up, opening his eyes. “Wait, he didn’t zap us some place?”

“We’re still here,” said Dean, although the seat at the head of the table was now conspicuously empty. “Wanna walk around? I’m damn near outta mushrooms.” Castiel peered at the container in his hands and nodded.

Team Free Will exited the building into a world of bright sunlight and primary colors. 

“Another amusement park?” Sam asked. Some laughing children ran by, clutching cotton candy. And then a gaggle of costumed mascots lumbered by, all happy smiles and rounded edges.

“Oh, god, it’s those things from television,” said Dean as they passed by. “The Whatchacallits.”

“The TumbleWumbles,” said Cas, who was quite suddenly smiling wistfully.

“You would know," said Dean, who was, for his part, royally creeped out by that show, not matter how much it apparently captivated certain former celestial messengers.

“The TumbleWumbles like me just as I am, Dean,” Cas informed him dryly.

“We gotta keep you away from educational TV, angel. Sammy, you OK?”

Sam shrugged. “Yep.”

Dean studied his younger brother curiously. “Wait! You’re not breathing into a paper bag?”

Sam watched as the clutch of characters waddled around a corner. “These things aren’t clowns, Dean. They’re actually … kinda pathetic.”

“But the purple TumbleWumble in particular has many important life lessons to impart, Sam,” Cas scolded.

“Isn't the purple TumbleWumble the gay one?” asked Dean.

Cas scowled. “I see no reason to disparage the TumbleWumbles, Dean.”

“It's not disparaging! It's what I heard! On the internet.”

“How can a seven foot tall genderless assemblage of cuboidal shapes have a sexual orientation anyway?” Sam posited.

“He was carrying a purse, Sam!” 

As if in unspoken agreement, the three men followed the TumbleWumbles down a narrow path, to where they wandered into a fenced courtyard and then disappeared into a doorway marked “CAST MEMBERS ONLY.” A very large and quite unsmiling guard waited outside the gate.

“Huh. Well, I guess no TumbleWumble autographs for Cas,” joked Dean, much to Castiel’s annoyance.

“Anyway, we gotta figure out what Death wants from us this time,” said Sam. “Wanna poke around?”

“You gotta get rid of that coat first, Cas,” said Dean, pointing to Cas's overcoat. “All these kids around, you look like a pedo.”

“I'm sorry, Dean, I don't understand.”

“Pedophile, Cas.”

Cas squinted at Dean. “What is wrong with liking children?”

“You don't like them- Explain it to him, Sam!'

“Why? He's _your_ angel.”

They ended up leaving Cas’s lecherous overcoat in the Impala, which they found Death had conveniently situated for them out in the parking lot. The Winchesters of course used the occasion to array themselves with various odds and ends from underneath the trunk’s false bottom. “Any clue what we’re gonna find?” asked Sam, who was hefting two different pistols.

“If _Scooby Doo_ is any indication, it’s gonna be fake ghosts,” said Dean, grabbing himself a container of rock salt.

“Scooby Doo?” Cas inevitably asked.

“Don’t tell me you don’t know, Cas! I know you watched that show. You watched it with me.”

“The one where the teenagers always appear to be running in place?” Cas narrowed his eyes. “You know I find that cartoon to be perplexing and unpleasant.”

“No philosophical message, Cas?” asked Sam.

“The animation is poorly rendered,” Cas grumbled.

Sam shrugged. “That’s fair.”

Dean smirked. “Yeah, but craptacular animation or not, every episode is the same: there’s weird shit happening at an amusement park, and it seems like a ghost, but it’s really the jerk-ass old caretaker.”

“Jerk ass caretaker? I’ll take the 9mm then,” said Sam, tucking it into his waistband.. 

“And look out for Sonny and Cher!” Dean warned. But unfortunately, there were no pop-singing duos to be found in the park, nor were there conniving caretakers. In fact, after an entire hour of wandering the grounds, all at the place appeared well and good.

“You don’t suppose Death led us astray this time?” asked Sam as they walked through rows or arcade games: penny tosses and the like.

“His motivations are clouded,” said Cas though a mouthful of cotton candy which he had insisted Dean purchase for him. 

“Hey, a shooting gallery!” said Dean, sighting the small plastic rifle sitting on the wooden shelf.

“Do we have time for this?” Sam moaned.

“Hey, Cas, I’ll win you a stuffed TumbleWumble. A purple one!”

Cas cast a puzzled glance at Sam, who whispered, “Courtship ritual.” And then louder he asked, “You sure about this, Dean?”

“Like shooting ducks in a row,” Dean assured him as they watched the ducks in a row hum by. “Hey, ma'am!" he called out to the woman working in the booth.

The attendant turned around. It was a short, dark-haired women. To absolutely no one's surprise, she told them, “You can call me Beth.”

“Beth,” said Dean. “You don't happen to have a twin sister, who is also named Beth, plus there are two of them?”

“Uh, triplets, I think you mean,” said Sam.

“I know what triplets are,” Dean told him. And then, “Hmm, triplets.”

“Whatever you're thinking, stop,” said Sam.

“How are things running here at the present time, Beth?” Cas asked her, businesslike. “Anything strange? Are any of the caretakers posing as ghosts? Are there any large anthropomorphic dogs in the vicinity?”

“No, nothing strange,” Beth told them. 

All three men stared at her.

“Though you ask me, they haven't been doing the necessary maintenance on some of the coasters. If you ask me.”

“We are asking you,” Dean told her.

“Welp,” said Beth helpfully.

“We should go investigate the coasters,” said Cas.

“Yeah. In a minute!” Dean told him, grabbing up the little plastic rifle.

 

Cas stood underneath the Jolly TumbleWumble Wall of Death coaster, purple plush TumbleWumble under his arm, watching the cars race by overhead in a loop-the-loop.

There were screams of joy and fear. He turned to Dean. “They seem to relish the experience.”

“They're all brain damaged,” muttered Dean, munching on some popcorn.

“You guys wanna ride?” asked Sam. When Dean gave him The Look, he added, “Research!”

“Not on your life.”

“I wouldn't mind accompanying you, Sam,” said Cas. “I haven't ever experienced a human amusement park ride.”

Dean shook his head in a most decisive manner. “You two? Go and tempt fate. I'm stayin' right here.”

“Will you hold my TumbleWumble, Dean?”

 

Dean had relocated, along with the toy TumbleWumble and some greasy junk food, to the other side of a fake mountain from the roller coaster his brother and Cas were currently standing in a long line for the dubious opportunity to ride. Dean had balked: even looking up at the evil things made him nauseous. 

He sat the plush toy down on a wooden bench, recalling with some little bitterness one particular morning after he and Cas had splurged and gotten their own motel room. Dean had awakened to find himself alone in a vast California king-sized bed, the television bright and muttering at low volume. He had crawled to the foot of the bed to investigate, and found Cas sitting cross-legged and slack-jawed there on the floor, as if in tune with some great universal mysteries.

Castiel had reacted with intense irritation when the picture suddenly went to black. "Dean!"

"Cas, that's a kid's show!" pronounced Dean, wielding the remote like a weapon.

"You were watching Warner Brothers cartoons only yesterday."

"That's different. That stuff is _classic_."

Cas 's head had canted off to thirty degrees from perpendicular, wistful smile on his face. "Perhaps this is to be a future classic."

Dean snapped out of his reverie when he noticed one of the costumed characters appeared to be … well, there was no better word for it than _lurking_. Somehow it had gotten inside the chain link fence that bordered the foundations of the ride. Dean kept an eye on it; partly because he was impressed to see two things that nauseated him so intensely in such close proximity. He was also somewhat curious why an actor would have a cause to be in a restricted area.

It slunk around a corner (as well as someone wearing nearly seven feet of plastic costume could slink) and disappeared from his view. Dean looked up and down the pathway, and then, telling Cas's stuffed TumbleWumble, “Stay put" on the bench, he slipped underneath a gap in the fence to follow the character.

Oddly enough, the guy, or whoever was inside, was awfully light on his feet, because he repeatedly slipped away from Dean's tail. Dean paused for a moment to scan the area for him. He had stopped directly underneath the platform where the cars stopped for eager customers to mount them. Conversations from overhead drifted downwards. "I swear you're gonna freak, Cas."

"I assume you mean in the positive sense of that word, Sam?"

"Wooden coaster. It's a classic!"

Dean stared upwards. Great. The lunatic angel and his dumb brother were saddling up just when he needed them to help pursue an errant living beanbag. He heard the clicks as safety bars snapped into place, and then the clatter of rubber wheels on metal skids as then the car whizzed off. It was at that exact moment he spotted it: a shade of purple that didn't exist in nature, off hovering near the base of the loop-the-loop.

The coaster was programmed so two sets of cars circled around simultaneously. Cas and his brother were setting off on one set, while the other train of cars was just now hurtling towards the loop. Dean heard the rattle and the joyous screams approaching. The first car in the train hit the bottom of the loop with god knows how many pounds per square inch or pressure, but whatever it was, it was just enough to break off a metal screw that fixed the railings to the wooden frame. The track was knocked slightly askew with each successive wheel clattering over it. The train of cars made it over, thanks to forward momentum, and screamed through the loop before driving onwards.

But this left the tracks askew. Dean saw the twisted metal of the track, aware that it would only be a minute before the second train, containing his brother and his angel, stormed through to derail in a most spectacular fashion.

"Hey, stop the ride!" was what Dean _wanted_ to scream, but he was unable to complete the shout, as his throat at that point suddenly came in contact with an outstretched purple arm. 

The breath knocked out of him, Dean fell to his knees and could only watch, helpless, as the lurking Dude wearing the TumbleWumble suit dashed over to the loosened rail. As Dean struggled to his feet, the guy pressed his purple-gloved hands to the twisted metal. Dean could already hear the screams of the oncoming cars. The track had started to vibrate. 

The damaged railing briefly glowed and there was a feeling of static electricity in the air that made the hair on Dean's arms stand on end. He could see the train of cars approaching now, and he imagined he heard Sam and Cas's whoops of fear and euphoria. And then, right before his eyes, the damaged bit of track magically - because that's what it was, _magic_ \- straightened itself and laid itself back down, just in time for the line of cars to breach the loop. It was startlingly noisy and whipped up the wind something terrible. 

Dean stood frozen for several beats of his heart, watching as the cars crested the loop and zoomed on out, oblivious passengers wailing with joy.

And then his eyes snapped around to the mascot, who was still standing there, watching his handiwork. He glanced over at Dean and, after an amazing Saturday morning cartoon-worthy double take, the TumbleWumble took off running, Dean just a beat behind him.

The mascot hurtled through a gap in the fence. Dean charged through as well, where he ran smack into the hulking figure of his brother, who along with Cas, had just emerged, giddy, from the ride's exit.

"Dean? What the hell?" 

It was then that Dean spoke the three words he never in his wildest dreams thought would emit from his mouth, "Follow that TumbleWumble!"

Surprisingly enough, Dean had always been the fastest Winchester, something he attributed to Sam's simple inability to keep from tripping over his own comically large feet. But as it turned out, Dean was not quite a match for a certain former wavelength of celestial intent, who was perhaps bouyed by the pure adrenaline charge of his first ever experience riding a human roller coaster. And so Cas sprinted to the head of the pack, only a hair behind the also astonishingly fleet TumbleWumble.

"He's headed for the cast members area!" Sam called.

"Head him off, Cas!" Dean yelled.

And, just before the mascot made it past the gate into the restricted area, Cas leapt at him, managing to knock the creature's mask off. 

Oddly enough, there was nothing underneath.

The headless body continued running, disappearing behind the CAST MEMBERS ONLY door.

As Sam and Dean caught up with him, Cas sat on the path, breathing hard, large purple head in his lap. “That TumbleWumble is not as he appears!” He said.

 

“So,” said Dean, as he sat on the bench, catching his breath and explaining what had just happened, "we got a reverse Scooby Doo on our hands? 

“But in this case,” said Sam, “everything is running smoothly because of the ghosts?”

“Yeah! And no Jonathan Winters.”

"What should we do?" inquired Cas, who undoubtedly didn't get the reference.

"I'm not actually sure we should _do_ anything," said Sam. "I don't get why Death sent us here."

"It might help if we could get into that cast only section," Dean pointed out.

Sam pondered this for a moment. “We probably can't just fake an ID badge. We'd need a costume.”

Just then, as if on cue, a cast member wandered by, guzzling a soda.

“I got an idea,” said Dean.

 

“I don't know if this is a good idea, Dean. As you know, I appear to lack the skill set required for … infiltration.”

“C'mon, Cas, you'll be fine. Besides, you're the only one who'll fit the costume!” Dean stepped back and smiled at his handiwork. Cas straightened up in the Engineer Bob costume, carefully adjusting his billed cap. Meanwhile, the real Engineer Bob, whose Mountain Dew they'd managed to spike with knockout drops, snored contentedly from where he was hidden: in back a row of topiary which had been coaxed into the shapes of the four TumbleWumbles. 

“You just have to get past the guard and nose around in the cast members’ area,” said Sam, handing something out of his pack to Dean.

Dean glared at the item. “What the hell are you doing with an eyebrow pencil, Sam?”

“Just use it, Dean,” sighed Sam. 

Dean motioned Cas over to him and then carefully drew a pencil thin mustache on the ex-angel's upper lip. “There, you got your own pornstache!”

“What?” asked Cas, his eyes crossing as he tried to peer down at it. 

“Now go knock 'em dead!” said Dean, clapping Cas on the shoulder. And before Cas could point out he was no longer capable of smiting, he quickly added, “No, not literally.”

Looking a bit dubious, and leaving Sam to deal with the slumbering cast member, Cas strode off with Dean. After having to stop for a photo or two (or three) with some small fans, Dean watched Cas disappear, seemingly without incident, past the guard and into the cast members area. Dean remained a bit up the pathway and waited for some time, and with a steadily increasing amount of worry, for him to emerge. 

It turned out to be (for Dean at least) an interminably long wait. He had just conjured the mental image of his angel lying broken on the floor with multiple contusions and vowed to burst in for the rescue when he spied none other than Engineer Bob emerging from the building and, what's more remarkable, holding the hand of the littlest TumbleWumble, the pink one. (Dean had no idea of the names, and truly didn't want to have this information in his brain.)

Cas nodded to the mascot, and then broke contact and walked out the gate. “Dean, we need to talk,” he said, already marching towards were Sam and the real Engineer Bob were waiting.

“What's going on?”

“All four mascots, as you had surmised, are indeed spirits. But they are not restless, Dean. On the contrary, they are trying to ascend to the afterlife through performance of good deeds.”

“What? You're telling me they are warm and fuzzy ghosts?”

“Indeed. The one you saw expressed deep sympathy for my present situation.”

“Oh, uh, well, that's nice,” said Dean, who truly hadn't thought a whole lot about Cas's status. 

“All died somewhere near the park grounds.”

“Did they fall off the roller coasters?”

“Surprisingly, no. One died of a heart attack after consuming too much junk food.”

Dean glanced down at the hot dog (extra relish) in his hand. “Uh. So they're hiding out from the reapers?”

“That is where this grows mysterious. They never encountered any reapers.” 

Dean was quiet for a moment. “What the heck would keep reapers at bay? Seems like we've got some pretty powerful mojo at work.”

“Dean. I've noticed that when Death has transported us to various locations for our tasks, he has not accompanied us.”

“That’s true.” Dean considered this for a while. “I thought he was just fucking with us. Do you think maybe … he’s been locked out, somehow?”

“Sam!” shouted Cas, as they had reached the deserted corner of the park where he was waiting. Sam was sitting on a low concrete wall, head in hands. Both Dean and Cas ran over to him.

“Are you all right, Sammy?” asked Dean, as he saw his brother was dabbing at his nose with a tissue.

“I don't know,” Sam croaked. “I'd been feeling better lately, but just now … it all sort of hit me.” He stifled a cough. 

“All right, you stay here for a while, then. Cas, can you get your costume back to Engineer Sleepy over there?”

“Yes, Dean.”

“What are you gonna do, Dean?” asked Sam, peering up at his brother, who suddenly had a determined look about him.

“I got an idea. I'm gonna check in with an old friend. I'll be right back.” And before Sam or Cas could question him, Dean was stalking off.

He ended up back at the shooting gallery booth. “Hey,” he asked the kid on duty, “I wanna talk to Beth.”

“What?” asked the teen, his voice breaking.

“Beth.”

“Who's Beth?”

Dean looked around, confused. “She was working here this morning.”

“No one by that name works here. I'm alone today. And we don't open until noon.”

“But I won a plush TumbleWumble!” Dean insisted. 

“Good for you.” The kid shrugged and went back to whatever he was doing.

 

“You sure about this?” asked Sam.

They had relocated to a nearby motel room. This one, for reasons known only to god and the general manager, was cowboy-themed. 

Dean sat cross-legged on the lariat-patterned bedspread. “It's gotta be me, Sammy. You're sick, and she doesn't know Cas.”

“I don't much care for dying, anyway,” Cas admitted. He handed Dean a small glass of water and two pills. 

“I shoulda ordered a beer with this,” laughed Dean, rattling the pills in his hand like a pair of dice. “You sure this won't send me away permanently, Cas?”

“It will put you in a state similar to hibernation for a short period. This toxin is very similar to the one used traditionally to create what were called zombies.”

“I'm gonna go all Dawn of the Dead? Maybe we should have done this in a shopping mall, huh?”

“You've got the antidote, Cas?” Sam asked, stifling a cough. 

Castiel held up a bottle. “But we have a limited amount, probably enough for only one dosing. Please strive to work fast, Dean.”

“Probably enough?” Dean raised an eyebrow. “Well, down the hatch!” he said, and popped the pills before Sam could object. He guzzled water, and then lay back as Cas took the glass from him.

“Hey, Cas, don't look so concerned. Geez, you guys look like little old ladies.” He chuckled at Cas leaning across the bed to place a hand over Dean's forehead.

Dean frowned, and then leaned over, waving a hand in front of Cas's eyes. “Oh, shit, I'm already spectral,” he said, looking at his own hands. He shivered, as he felt a chill in the room.

“Oh, not you again,” sighed Tess, who had entered the room accompanied by the significant drop in temperature.

“Tess,” Dean told the reaper, “Cool. I gotta talk to the head honcho.”

“Oh what now, Dean?” she asked, her eyes wide. She looked pointedly at her watch. “You know, I have things to do, people who are _really_ dead, not just recidivists like you.”

“Your boss has been using us for some errands lately. But I get the feeling he's jerking us around, and we need the full story.”

Tess plopped down on the bed next to where Castiel and Sam were fussing over Dean. They were having a conversation, but they seemed far off, like they were down in the bottom of a well or something. 

Tess puffed air through her cheeks, blowing out her bangs. “You're out of luck. I haven't seen him.”

“No?”

“Nobody has seen him. I'm-” She cast a glance at Cas and Sam, as if they could overhear. “I'm actually getting a little worried,” she confessed, her voice just above a whisper. “What have you been doing for him?”

Dean hunkered down so he could be at eye level. “It's been strange. He's transported us to a couple of places to do odd jobs for him: once we stopped a flood, and we also took care of a couple gods who were murdering townspeople. I'm not sure what we've been supposed to do in this place. There's some spirits down at the theme park who need reaping.”

“What? That's strange. He's usually so collected about that kind of stuff....” She trailed off, looking uncertain.

“Tess, help us. Tell me what you know.”

Tess pursed her lips, looking very human for a moment Dean thought, like she was tattling on Dad or something. “Well, remember, I've known him for eons. But he didn't ever seem like he got back in step after Lucifer released him.”

Dean leaned forward, nodding. “It had to have an effect.”

“I didn't think anything would affect him! But recently, for a while at least, it was like he snapped out of it.”

“Back to his old Grim Reaper self?”

“Maybe.” Tess nervously glanced over to where Cas was now feeling Dean's forehead for the millionth time. 

_Feel me up while I'm unconscious, why don't you?_ Dean thought to himself. He turned back to Tess. “This sounds like it's gonna have a 'but' attached to it.”

“But, then one day I see him and he's worse than ever. And then he just up and disappears on us!”

“How long?”

“How long what?” Tess was studying at Sam and Cas again. Cas was holding the antidote bottle. She seemed as if her thoughts were far away.

“How long has he been gone?”

“Oh! In your reckoning, maybe a week. Or two?”

“We've talked to him since then. We talked to him this morning!”

“Really?” She turned to Dean. “You know, there might be a way. I can't do anything about it, but you guys are mortal-”

“And-?”

“Dean!”

Dean jerked upwards as Cas shook him. He looked around the room. “Where's Tess? Where did she go?”

“It worked? You saw her?” asked Sam eagerly.

Dean leaned back. “Son of a bitch! She was just about to help me out.”

“I'm sorry, Dean,” said Cas. “We had been monitoring your vital signs, and had cause for concern.”

“Of course my vital signs were crap! I was dead!” Cas winced, looking contrite, and Dean immediately felt like an ass. “As, shit, I'm sorry, Cas. You did all right.” He took one of Cas's hands in his own, even though it was a little girlie of him. 

“What did you find out?” asked Sam.

“Tess says Death's been acting weird.”

“Weird?”

“Weird for him. He seemed like he was on top of the world for a while. And then he got morose.”

“What could make someone act like that?” asked Cas.

Dean and Sam suddenly looked at each other. 

“What is it?” asked Cas. If Dean or Sam were going to answer him, though, they were interrupted by a knock on the door. 

“What the hell?” mouthed Dean. Sam shook his head. Dean pulled out a gun and, carefully keeping it behind his back, walked over and opened the door a crack. “Oh, hey!” he said, breaking into a smile. Shoving the gun behind his back into his waistband, he signed a clipboard, and then was handed a FedEx box. “When it absolutely, positively has to be there overnight,” he muttered, coming back over to Sam and Cas.

“Who knows we're here?” asked Sam.

“Our friend the reaper,” said Dean, tearing open the box. It contained a candle, and a note. He hefted the candle and squinted at the note. 

“What's it say?”

_“'Make sure you're outside when you light this. Good luck, boys! T.'_ Hey, and she signed it with little X's.”

“You are now, literally, flirting with death?” asked Sam. 

Cas looked as if he did not approve. “Aw, c'mon, Cas, you know you're my angel,” Dean told him, pulling him close.

“Guys, we only got one room tonight!” Sam warned them.

“That's OK,” said Dean. “We gotta go light this candle.”

“Where do you think we should go?” asked Sam.

“I believe I know,” Cas told them..

 

“So, do we need to do anything or say anything?” asked Sam, who was shivering and clutching his jacket close to him. He sat down on a nearby bench.

“Tess didn't give any other instructions. You sure you're all right to be here, Sammy?”

“As long as he doesn't try to reap me, I'll figure I'm good.” 

Dean smiled at his brother, though his expression was worried. “Well, here goes nothing.” He set the candle on the ground, struck a match to it, and then quickly backed up several steps.

The wick flared up, like a trick candle or a sparkler, and then receded. Dean thought he smelled a whiff of something, one of the herbs Bobby used to use. Frankincense? 

“You should not have done that.” There was no beating of wings, no smell of sulfur: Death was just there, in their presence. “I should not be here.”

“Yeah, we should have. We have some work for you.”

Dean gestured up the path. They were standing in the middle of the TumbleWumble theme park, which was now deserted. There were only a few dim lights on, so you had to look carefully to see, but coming up the path were Castiel, followed by four primary-colored figures.

Castiel walked up until he stood before Death, the four TumbleWumbles arrayed around him. “These spirits are my friends. They seek passage to the other side.”

Death leaned on his cane. It was the first time Dean had ever seen him look less than completely in control. “I am terribly sorry. Circumstances … prevented me from assisting you.” He stepped forward, and touched the smallest one. There was a brief smell of ozone, and she appeared to sag to the ground. Dean realized, with the spirit flown, that it was just the TumbleWumble outfit now. Death then touched each of the other creatures, one at a time, until he stood among a pile of empty costumes.

“I suppose your work here is now done,” Death told them.

“No,” said Cas. 

“No?”

“No, Death,” said Dean. “You're coming with us. And don't try to get out of it, we'll just annoy you by lighting another candle. But first, take my advice. Whatever you did, you were wrong.”

Death glowered at Dean. “Nonsense.”

“No, Death,” said Sam, uneasily getting to his feet. “Believe us. You were wrong.”

Death scowled at Sam, and then the entire party walked across the park. They soon came to the section with the arcade games. To nobody's surprise, only one arcade was open: the shooting gallery.

“Want to try your hand?” asked the short, dark-haired woman who worked there.

And then she espied Death.

Death nervously cleared his throat.

And Beth was no longer Beth, or at least, she didn't look the same. She still had dark hair and a dark complexion, but she was tall and slim, and appeared a lot younger, although everyone realized that she was probably ancient as hell.

She flashed her black eyes at Death.

“Elspeth,” said Death. He hesitated. He turned around and looked at Dean, who nodded encouragement, and then looked back at her. “I am sorry. I was .. wrong.”

Elspeth nodded, a slight smile tracing her features. And then she was there no more.

Death let out a deep sigh.

“Women, huh?” said Dean, slapping Death on the back.

Death, for once in his existence, seemed at loss for a snappy comeback. “I am … in your debt. For this. I am most grateful.”

“You know something?” said Dean. “Don't worry about it.”

“Just maybe.... Tell us what’s going on, next time?” said Sam.

“Girl trouble. It happens to us all,” Dean told him.

“Elspeth had … locked me out of her presence. I could have forced my way in, but I didn’t think that to be gentlemanly. I couldn’t risk telling you, as that may have alerted her to my intentions.”

“We’re pulling for you, dude,” said Dean. “I think we’ve all been there. Well, maybe not Cas, but Sam and I.”

Death looked around at the three men. “I apologize if I misled you. You three have been faithful servants in this. Know this, that there are very few creatures in this existence who have earned my favor. I now owe you a boon.”

Sam, Dean and Cas looked at each other.

“But I would caution you, think carefully about it.”

 

Cas was carefully folding up the trench coat and laying it in top drawer of the dresser in his room in the Men of Letters bunker. He propped the plush TumbleWumble Dean had won on top of the dresser.

“So,” said Dean, who was sitting on the edge of Cas’s bed, just watching. He liked watching Cas. Even when he was just doing menial stuff. The guy had really nice hands. “You gonna ask me?”

“Ask you, Dean?”

Dean kicked his legs, like a kid. “What was up with Death and the girl?”

“I know what was _up_ ,” said Cas. He slightly adjusted the position of the stuffed toy. 

“And how do you know that?”

Cas shrugged. He walked over to where Dean was sitting. Dean grabbed a wrist and tugged him nearer. Cas put out his other hand, tracing a thumb down Dean's jaw. A mournful expression crossed his face. “I can't see your soul any more.”

“That's OK.”

“No. It isn't.” He reached out his other hand to cup Dean's face, staring down at him. “It was the best thing about being … what I was.”

“My crappy old soul? You can't mean that.” Dean's face edged into a smile. Cas dropped his hands to his sides. “Wait. You're thinking about it. Death's boon. Is that what you want?”

Cas shook his head. His voice was small. “I thought that's what I wanted. But….” Cas trailed off. He bit his lip.

“What?”

”I can’t ask for my grace back, Dean.”

“Why not?”

“I want- I want Sam to recover.”

Dean laughed. 

“I don't understand,” said Cas. “I _never_ understand.”

“Because. We talked about it. Sam insisted we ask for your grace back.”

Cas was silent for a long moment. “Really?”

“Really. You two are really the Gift of the Magi types, you know?"

Cas squinted into the missed reference. Snatching the plush TumbleWumble from atop the bureau, he sat down beside Dean, hugging it to his chest. “And what did you want to ask for, Dean?”

“My boon?”

“Yes.”

Dean sat back. “Well, I guess it would be a toss-up between you and-”

“No, Dean!” Dean stared at Castiel. “I mean something _you_ want. For yourself. Something … selfish.”

Dean nodded and then stared at the ceiling for a moment or two. “For me? Nothing.”

Cas blinked. “Nothing?”

Dean shrugged. “I got my brother here. I’m worried about him, yeah, but he’ll get better. And I got my angel.” He tugged the plush TumbleWumble away from Cas, and bobbed it up and down on his leg. “He’s a little strange. And he’s got crap taste in television.” He smiled at the stuffed toy. “But I think he’s a keeper. I don't need anything for me.”

Cas leaned over and kissed Dean. Because, at that point, he had to. Dean sighed as the kiss grew deeper.

“Dean?” Cas murmured.

“Yes.”

“Gimme back my TumbleWumble,” snapped Cas, snatching the plush toy. He stood up and, to Dean’s annoyance, placed it back in the place of honor on top of the dresser. And then he stood, hands on hips, admiring his handiwork.

“Hey, _I_ won that!”

“And then you gave it to me. It's mine.”

Dean whistled low. “Damn, angel. You’ve gotten possessive.”

Cas turned to face Dean. “Yes. I have.” He fixed Dean with a stare. “Come here, Dean.”

Dean raised his eyebrows and broke into a grin. And then he stood up, and went to Cas.


End file.
